^Mu-r;..^   ^- ^i-^ 


By  DMITRI  MEREJKOWSKI 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  GODS.  Authorized  English 
Version  by  Herbert  Trench.    12°    . 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI: 
THE  FORERUNNER.  (The  Resurrection  of 
the  Gods.)  Authorized  English  Version  from  the 
Russian.    12°.     With  8  Illustrations  . 

Artist's  Edition,  with  64  illustrations.    2  vols., 

8° 

PETER  AND  ALEXIS.  Authorized  English  Version 
from  the  Russian.    12^      .... 


O.  P«  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York  London 


Christ  and  Antichrist 

The  Death  of  the 
Gods 


By 

Dmitri  Mdrejkowski 


Translated  by 

Herbert  Trench 

Sometime  Fellow  of  All  Souls  College,  Oxford 


Authorised  English  Version 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
ZIbe   fcnicfterbocKer    press 


REPLACING 

I  QO'I  ')  1 


Copyright  igoi 

by 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


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ySbz  Knicfterboclser  preee,  i:iew  2?orft 


M^REJKOWSKI 


DMITRI  ME:rEJKOWSKI  is  perhaps  the  most 
interesting  and  powerful  of  the  younger  Russian 
novelists,  the  only  writer  that  promises  to  carry  on  the 
work  of  Tolstoi,  Turgeniev,  and  Dostoievski.  His 
books,  which  are  already  numerous,  are  animated  by  a 
single  master-idea,  the  Pagano-Christian  dualism  of 
our  human  nature.  What  specially  interests  him  in 
the  vast  spectacle  of  human  affairs  is  the  everlasting 
contest  between  the  idea  of  a  God-Man  and  the  idea  of 
a  Man-God  ;  that  is  to  saj^  between  the  conception  of  a 
God  incarnate  for  awhile  (as  in  Christ)  and  the  concep- 
tion of  Man  as  himself  God — gradually  evolving  higher 
types  of  splendid  and  ruling  character  which  draw 
after  them  the  generations. 

The  novelist's  own  doctrine  seems  to  be  that  both 
the  Pagan  and  the  Christian  elements  in  our  nature, 
although  distinct  elements,  are  equally  legitimate  and 
sacred.  His  teaching  is  that  the  soul  and  the  senses 
have  an  equal  right  to  be  respected  ;  that  hedonism 
and  altruism  are  equals,  and  that  the  really  full  man, 
the  perfect  man,  is  he  who  can  ally  in  harmonious 
equilibrium  the  cult  of  Dionysus  and  the  cult  of  Christ. 

Merejkowski  conceives  that  European  civilisation 
has  been  born  of  the  tremendous  conflict  between  these 
two  main  ideas.  And  he  has  embodied  this  conflict  in 
a  trilogy  of  novels, — three  great  historical  romances. 
The  first  is  entitled  T/ie  Death  of  the  Gods,  and  deals 
with  the  extraordinary  career  of  the  Roman  Emperor, 

iii 


iv  M^rejkowski 

Julian  the  Apostate,  who  in  the  fourth  century  A.r>. 
sought  to  revive  the  worship  of  the  Olympians  after 
Christianity  had  been  adopted  by  Constantine  the 
Great  as  the  c^cial  religion  of  the  Roman  Empire. 

The  historical  novel,  pure  and  simple,  exists  no 
longer.  Writers  of  genius  who  seem  to  write  historical 
novels  in  reality  are  only  transferring  to  the  stage  of 
the  world  a  drama  which  is  being  played  in  their  own 
souls.  They  transfer  thither  that  drama  in  order  to 
show  that  the  struggle  which  is  now  going  on  in  us  is 
eternal.  Merejkowski  sees  the  question,  which  is  of 
supreme  interest  to  us,  being  asked  by  the  great  spirits 
of  a  wealthy  and  imperial  civilisation  closely  resembling 
our  own,  in  the  fourth  century.  And,  what  is  of  more 
interest  still,  he  not  only  sees  the  momentous  problem 
and  places  it  before  us  with  remarkable  lucidity,  but 
he  also  seems,  in  his  own  fashion,  to  arrive  at  a  solu- 
tion. Moreover,  this  novelist,  this  psychologist,  is  also 
an  artist  and  a  poet,  possessed  by  what  he  somewhere 
calls  the  **  Nostalgia  of  the  Dist^ant."  With  an  ardour 
as  of  Flaubert  in  Salammbo,  and  with  perhaps  more 
skill  than  Sienkiewicz  in  Quo  VadiSy  the  author  of  The 
Death  of  the  Gods  has  succeeded  in  re-creating  the 
wonderful  rich  scenes  and  characters  of  that  remote 
epoch.  We  see  the  racing  stables  of  the  Hippodrome 
of  Constantinople,  battles  with  wild  German  warriors 
round  Strasburg,  the  interior  of  the  baths  at  Antioch, 
dinners  of  epicures  and  men  of  letters  at  Athens,  pict- 
ures of  a  Roman  Emperor  at  his  toilet-table,  or  of  a 
lovelorn  child  in  the  Temple  of  Aphrodite.  Before 
writing  this  first  of  his  great  romances  Merejkowski 
himself  travelled  through  Asia  Minor  and  Greece, 
visited  Constantinople  and  Syria,  and  gathered  every- 
where living  impressions   to  serve  his  art  and  his 


Merejkowski  r 

thought.  He  was  besides  admirably  prepared  to  handle 
a  subject  which  had  attracted  him  from  youth.  A  deli- 
cate Hellenist,  his  first  appearance  in  literary  life  was 
as  a  harmonious  translator  of  ^schylus  and  Sophocles. 
Later,  the  Gnostics,  the  Fathers  of  the  Eastern  Church, 
the  Greek  Sophists  (who  represented  the  last  throes  of 
expiring  Paganism  and  already  dreamed  of  reviving 
it),  were  the  young  poet's  objects  of  study.  Thus  was^ 
born  the  romance  of  Tke  Death  of  the  Gods,  which  he 
has  continued  later  in  The  Resurrection  of  the  Gods  (of 
which  Leonardo  da  Vinci  is  the  hero),  and  completed 
by  The  Anti-Christ,  portraying  the  savage  figure  of 
Peter  the  Great,  the  creator  (despite  all  natural  ob- 
stacles) of  St.  Petersburg  and  of  modern  Russia. 

In  the  first  romance  of  the  three  the  new  Christian 
spirit  is  seen  invading  the  soul  of  Julian  himself,  the  last 
champion  of  expiring  Paganism.  It  can  even  be  seen 
in  the  little  treatises.  The  Sun  Kiftg  and  the  Mother  of 
the  Gods,  which  Julian  wrote  in  his  feverish  nights  to 
defend  his  lost  cause.  Soon  there  remained  to  this 
singular  man  of  all  that  first  ardour  but  a  feeling  of  im- 
potent rage  and  unbridled  pride — the  Napoleonic  lust 
of  conquering  the  world.  And  so  we  see  him  in  this 
book,  in  the  midst  of  the  mad  expedition  against 
Persia,  where  he  was  to  meet  his  death,  oversetting 
the  altar  of  the  gods  who  had  betrayed  him,  and  ex- 
claiming :  "  The  gods  are  no  more  ;  or  rather,  the  gods 
do  not  yet  exist.  They  are  not.  But  they  will  be.  We 
shall  all  be  gods.  We  have  but  to  dare  !  ''  A  few  days 
later  he  falls,  vanquished  by  the  Galilean,  whose  image 
haunts  his  deathbed.  But  at  that  last  hour  it  is  not 
the  fierce  God  of  the  Arians  (who  educated  Julian  the 
Emperor)  that  he  sees.  He  whom  delirium  calls  up  is 
Christus  Pastophonis, — the  Good  Shepherd. — the  Spirit 


vi  Merejkowski 

of  gentleness  and  love.     It  is  that  Spirit  who  has 
dethroned  the  Olympians. 

But  the  gods  do  not  perish  utterly.  Centuries  pass, 
and  from  the  bosom  of  the  waters,  like  Aphrodite,  from 
the  bosom  of  the  earth,  like  Cybele,  they  come  forth 
again,  serene  and  impassive.  Popes,  kings,  great 
nobles,  simple  Florentine  merchants  welcome  them, 
brought  by  galleys  from  the  coasts  of  Hellas,  or  dis- 
covered by  patient  excavators  of  the  antique  soil. 
Their  marble  glory  shines  anew.  The  rays  of  Helios 
penetrate  the  soul  of  artists.  The  fires  of  Dionysus 
kindle  the  blood  of  the  young  men  and  the  young 
women.  It  is  the  dawn  of  the  Renaissance.  Has  then 
the  God-Man  conquered  the  Man-God  ?  No  ;  because, 
see,  Savonarola  is  defying  the  gods  of  Olympus  and  the 
gods  of  the  earth.  The  latter  destroy  him,  but  the 
Christ  has  reappeared,  and  the  problem  of  the  two 
forms  of  wisdom  continues  to  be  set  in  a  form  more 
august  and  more  painful  than  ever  before. 

This  is  the  subject  of  the  Renaissance  of  the  Gods,  a 
romance  of  which  the  distinguished  critic  in  the  Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes,  M.  Theodore  de  Wyzewa,  says  that 
it  "  far  surpasses  the  mass  of  the  romances  published 
in  Russia  during  the  last  twenty-five  years." 

And  since  then,  as  before  then,  as  at  all  times,  at 
every  fresh  crisis,  at  every  renewal  of  the  creative  pro- 
cess taking  place  within  human  consciousness,  the  two 
principles  reappear.  They  struggle  too  in  the  soul  of 
the  strongest.  I^ook  at  Peter  the  Great,  whom  old  be- 
lievers used  to  call  "  The  Anti-Christ."  He  will  be 
the  hero  of  the  third  romance  of  the  trilogy.  We  shall 
see  therein  the  tragedy  of  the  gentle  Tsarevitch  Alexis, 
servant  of  the  Galilean  and  immolated  victim  of  the 
new  god  ;   victim,  that  is,  of  human  will  incarnate  in 


M^rejkowski  vii 

the  genius  of  Peter,  lifting  itself  above  good  and  evil. 
The  above  notes  are  largely  taken,  and  partly  trans- 
lated, from  an  interesting  paper  on  Mdrejkowski  by 
M.  Prozor  in  the  Mercure  de  France. 

Herbert  Trench. 


St.  Pktbrsbourg,  2^Juin,  1901. 
J*autorise  par  la  prdsente  Monsieur  Herbert  Trench 
d  r  exclusion  de  tout  autre,  a  traduire  du  russe  en  an* 
glais  mon  roman  intitule  La  Mort  des  Dieux,  qui  est  la 
premiere  partie  de  ma  trilogie  Le  Christ  et  V Anti- 
christ. 

Dmitri  de  M^rejkowski. 

[I  hereby  grant  to  Mr.  Herbert  Trench  the  exclusive 
authorisation  for  the  English  version  of  my  romance 
entitled  The  Death  of  the  Gods,  this  romance  constitut- 
ing the  first  division  of  the  trilogy  issued  under  the  gen- 
eral title  of  Christ  and  the  Anti- Christ.^ 

A  similar  authorisation  has  been  granted  to  Mr. 
Trench  for  the  two  succeeding  volumes  of  the  trilogy, 
entitled,  respectively,  The  Resurrection  0/  the  Gods  and 
The  Anti- Christ, 


PART  I 


I 


ABOUT  two  and  a  half  miles  from  Caesarea  in  Cappa 
docia,  upon  the  woody  spurs  of  Mount  Argaeus, 
and  close  to  the  great  Roman  road,  bubbled  a  certain 
warm  spring,  famous  for  its  healing  virtues.  A  granite 
slab,  adorned  with  rough  sculpture  and  bearing  a  Greek 
inscription,  proved  that  this  spring  had  of  old  time 
been  consecrated  to  the  twin  sons  of  Zeus,  Castor  and 
Pollux  ;  but  this  by  no  means  prevented  the  unbroken 
images  of  these  Pagan  demigods  from  being  locally 
worshipped  as  St.  Cosmas  and  St.  Damian  respectively. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  road,  opposite  the  sacred 
fountain,  rose  a  little  thatched  tavern,  flanked  by  a 
dirty  stable,  and  by  a  shed  where  fowls  and  geese  were 
dabbling  in  the  mud.  In  this  tavern,  owned  by  one 
Syrax,  a  wily  Armenian,  could  be  bought  goats' -milk 
clieese,  black  bread,  honey,  olive  oil,  and  a  thin  sour 
wine,  grown  in  neighbouring  vineyards. 

A  screen  divided  the  tavern  into  two  compartments  ; 
one  for  the  use  of  common  folk,  the  other  for  guests  of 
more  importance.  From  the  smoked  ceiling  hung 
hams  curing,  and  odorous  bunches  of  mountain  herbs, 
proving  that  Fortunata,  the  wife  of  Syrax,  was  a  care- 
ful housewife  ;  a  fact  that  did  not  save  the  dubious 
reputation  of  the  establishment. 

At  night  honest  travellers  dared  not  halt  here,  re- 
tnembering  sundry  rumours  about  dark  plots  hatched 
in  the  cottage  ;  but  Syrax,  ever  scheming,  and  know- 
ing whose  hand  to  cross  with  silver,  had  never  troubled 

3 


4  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

his  head  about  rumour.  The  partition  was  formed  by 
two  slender  columns,  between  which  was  stretched,  in 
the  manner  of  a  door-curtain,  an  old  chlamys  (or  outer 
garment)  of  faded  wool,  belonging  to  the  mistress  of 
the  house.  The  little  columns,  wrought  in  a  bare- 
faced attempt  at  the  Doric  style,  were  the  pride  of  the 
heart  of  Syrax  and  the  single  ornament  of  the  tavern. 
Once  gilded,  they  had  long  stood  creviced  and  chipped 
and  hopelessly  cracked. 

The  stuff  of  the  chlamys,  when  new,  had  been  a 
bright  violet ;  now  it  was  a  dirty  blue,  eked  out  by 
many  patches,  and  stained  with  innumerable  stains, 
due  to  the  breakfasts,  dinners,  and  suppers  of  ten  years 
of  the  conjugal  life  of  the  hard-working  Fortunata. 

In  the  clean  half  of  the  tavern,  on  a  single  narrow 
couch,  which  was  torn  in  many  places,  Marcus  Scuda, 
Roman  tribune  of  the  ninth  cohort  of  the  sixteenth 
legion,  was  lolling  before  a  tankard-strewn  table.  A 
dandy  provincial,  he  had  one  of  those  faces  at  the 
sight  of  which  prosperous  slaves  and  second-rate 
courtesans  would  inevitably  exclaim  with  heartfelt 
admiration  :  "  IV/ia^  a  handsome  man  !  " 

At  his  feet,  in  an  uncomfortable  but  respectful  atti- 
tude, a  red-faced  man  sat,  panting.  His  bald  head, 
was  fringed  with  grey  hair,  brushed  towards  the 
temples.  He  was  the  centurion  of  the  eighth  centuria^ 
Publius  Aquila. 

Farther  off,  twelve  soldiers,  stretched  on  the  floor, 
were  playing  at  knuckle-bones. 

''  By  Hercules  !  "  cried  Scuda,  ''  I  'd  rather  be  the 
meanest  beggar  in  Constantinople  than  the  first  man  in 
a  mouse-trap  like  this.  Can  you  call  this  an  existence, 
Publius  ?  Answer  me  honestly.  Is  this  living  ?  To 
think  that  outside  barracks  and  camps  the  future  has 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  5 

nothing  in  store  for  one  ;  that  one  must  rot  in  this 
sickening  marsh  without  ever  catching  a  glimpse  of  the 
world  again  ! " 

"  Yes,"  assented  Publius;  *'  it 's  a  fact  that  life  here 
is  n't  precisely  gay  ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  it 's  peace- 
ful !  " 

The  knuckle-bones  preoccupied  the  attention  of  the 
old  captain.  Pretending  to  listen  to  the  gossipings  of 
his  superior  officer,  and  fully  to  agree  with  the  drift 
of  his  remarks,  he  followed  with  an  interested  eye  the 
game  of  the  legionaries.  He  said  to  himself,  "  If  the 
red  aims  well,  he  '11  certainly  win." 

However,  by  way  of  politeness,  Publius  asked  Scuda, 
with  a  show  of  attention — 

"  Why,  by  the  way,  have  you  brought  down  on 
yourself  the  indignation  of  the  Prefect  Helvidius  ?  " 

**  A  woman,  a  friend  of  mine,  was  at  the  bottom  of 
it,  a  girl.     ..." 

And  Marcus  Scuda,  in  a  fit  of  garrulous  intimacy, 
confided  to  the  ear  of  the  old  centurion  that  the  Pre- 
fect, **  that  old  goat  of  a  Helvidius,"  had  grown  jealous 
on  account  of  the  special  favours  conferred  on  him, 
Marcus,  by  a  certain  frail  lady,  a  Lydian. 

Now  Scuda  wanted,  by  rendering  some  important 
service,  to  win  back  the  good-will  of  the  Prefect  ;  and 
he  had  resolved  upon  a  plan. 

Not  far  from  Caesarea,  in  the  fortress  of  Macellum, 
dwelt  Julian  and  Gallus,  the  cousins  of  the  reigning 
Emperor  Constantius,  and  the  nephews  of  Constantine 
the  Great.  These  two  were  the  last  representatives  of 
the  luckless  house  of  the  Flavii.  On  his  accession  to  the 
throne,  fearing  rivals,  Constantius  had  assassinated 
his  uncle,  the  father  of  Julian  and  Gallns,  Julian  Con- 
stantius, the  brother  of  Constantine.     But  Julian  and 


6  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Gallus  themselves  had  been  spared,  and  imprisoned  in 
the  solitary  castle  of  Macellum,  where  they  lived  op- 
pressed by  perpetual  fear  of  death.  In  great  perplexity, 
knowing  that  the  new  Emperor  loathed  the  two  orphans 
who  reminded  him  of  his  crime,  Helvidius,  Prefect  of 
Csesarea,  desired,  but  dreaded,  to  divine  the  will  of  his 
master. 

Scuda,  the  adroit  tribune,  possessed  by  visions  of  a 
career  at.  Court,  grasped,  from  chance  words  of  his 
superior  officer,  that  the  latter  dared  not  take  upon 
himself  the  heavy  responsibility,  and  trembled  lest  the 
current  rumour  about  an  escape  of  the  heirs  of  Con- 
stantine  should  be  realised  in  fact.  At  this  point  Scuda 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  Macellum,  seize  the  prison- 
ers, and  bring  them  to  Caesarea  under  the  safeguard 
o*  his  legionaries,  well  assured  that  he  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  these  orphaned  minors,  abandoned  by  the 
world  and  hated  by  the  Emperor.  By  this  valiant  pro- 
ceeding, Scuda  counted  on  regaining  the  favours  of  the 
Prefect  Helvidius,  so  unhappily  lost  on  account  of  the 
auburn-haired  lady  of  Lydia.  Nevertheless,  being  of  a 
suspicious  nature,  he  only  communicated  to  Publius 
part  of  his  plan. 

**  And  what  do  you  propose  now,  Scuda?  Have 
you  received  instructions  from  Constantinople  ?  " 

**  I  have  received  nothing  ;  nobody  knows  anything; 
but  there  is  an  everlasting  hawking  about  of  rumours, 
don't  you  see  ?  There  are  endless  veiled  hopes  and 
hints,  unfinished  phrases,  threats  and  warnings,  allu- 
sions. .  .  .  Any  idiot  can  do  what  he  has  been  told 
to  do.  But  this  is  a  matter  of  guessing  the  mute  will 
of  our  master.  That  's  a  job  that  brings  reward. 
Come,  let  us  make  the  venture,  take  the  risk.  The 
great  thing  is  to  be  speedy  and  stout-hearted,  and  to 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  7 

trust  in  the  Holy  Cross  !  .  .  .  I  confide  myself  to 
you,  Publius.  Perhaps  we  shall  be  drinking  at  Court, 
you  and  I,  before  many  days  are  over;  and,  by  God,  a 
better  wine  than  this  !  " 

Through  the  little  barred  window  filtered  the  troubled 
light  of  a  melancholy  dusk.  It  was  raining  monot- 
onously. A  single  clay  wall,  full  of  crevices,  separated 
the  room  from  the  stable.  The  acrid  odour  of  dung 
came  though,  and  the  clucking  of  hens,  the  shrill 
chirping  of  chickens,  and  the  grunting  of  pigs  was 
audible.  There  came  also  the  steady  noise  of  a  liquid 
falling  into  a  sonorous  can,  as  if  the  good  wife  were 
milking  her  cow.  The  soldiers,  discussing  their  win- 
nings, were  quarrelling  among  themselves  in  under- 
tones. Close  against  the  floor,  through  the  frail  lath 
and  plaster,  a  hog  had  thrust  his  fat,  pink  snout. 
Caught  in  too  narrow  a  slit,  he  could  not  draw  out  his 
muzzle  and  was  groaning  piteously.     Publius  mused — 

"  By  Jupiter  !  we  're  nearer  the  courtyard  of  the 
cattle  than  the  court  of  the  Emperor  ! ' ' 

His  interest  in  the  game  had  melted  away.  The 
tribune  after  his  excess  of  confidence  himself  felt  sad. 
Through  the  window  he  looked  at  the  grey  sky,  dis- 
solving itself  into  water,  at  the  muzzle  of  the  pig,  the 
thick  lees  of  wine  in  the  tankards,  the  dirty  soldiers. 
Anger  mounted  to  his  brain. 

He  struck  the  table,  which  swayed  on  its  uneven 
legs,  with  his  fist. 

*'  Hi,  rascality  !  betrayer  of  Christ,  Syrax,  come 
here  !     What  wine  do  you  call  that,  you  scoundrel  ?  '* 

The  innkeeper  ran  up.  He  wore  hair  and  beard 
frizzled  into  fine  ringlets,  black  as  ebony,  with  bluish 
shadows.  Fortunata  used  to  say,  in  her  hours  of  con- 
jugal tenderness,  that  the  beard  of  Syrax  was  like  a 


8  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

bunch  of  the  grapes  of  Samos.  His  eyes  were  also 
black  and  extraordinarily  brilliant,  and  a  honeyed 
smile  never  left  his  purple  lips.  He  resembled  a  cari- 
cature of  Bacchus,  and  was  black  and  sugary  from 
every  point  of  view.  To  appease  the  wrath  of  Scuda, 
the  innkeeper  took  to  witness  Moses  and  Deidamia, 
Christ  and  Hercules,  that  his  wine  was  superexcellent. 
But  the  tflbune  was  obstinate,  declaring  that  he  knew 
in  whose  house  Glabrio,  a  rich  merchant  of  Lyrnas, 
had  recently  b^n  assassinated  ;  and  that  he,  Scuda, 
would  denounce  Syrax  in  the  proper  quarters.  Terri- 
fied, the  Armenian  rush^  to  the  cellars,  and  brought 
back  thence  in  triumph  a  strange  bulky  bottle,  flat  at 
its  base,  narrow-necked,  covered  with  mildew,  and  grey 
with  age.  Through  the  mouldiness  in  places  the  glass 
was  visible,  no  longer  transparent,  but  irised,  and 
upon  the  label  of  cypress- wood  attached  to  the  neck  of 
the  bottle  could  be  deciphered  the  initial  letters  of 
'^Anthosmium  "  and  below  **  Aimorimi    Centiim''' 

But  Syrax  assured  the  couple  that  even  in  the  reign 
of  the  Emperor  Diocletian  the  wine  had  been  more  than 
a  hundred  years  old. 

*'  Black  wine  ?  "  asked  Publius,  with  respect. 

'  *  Black  as  tar,  and  sweet  smelling  as  nectar.  Ho !  For- 
tunata  !  for  thiswine  bring  summer  glasses,  cups  of  crys- 
tal, and  bring  too  the  whitest  snow  from  the  ice-tub." 

Fortunata  brought  in  two  glasses.  Her  healthy  face 
was  of  a  dull  pallor  like  thick  cream,  and  with  her  came 
in  the  smell  of  country  freshness,  milk,  and  manure. 

The  landlord  gazed  at  the  bottle  amorously,  and 
kissed  its  neck  ;  then  with  caution  he  raised  the  waxen 
seal.  The  wine  flowed  black  and  odorous  in  a  thick 
jet,  dissolving  the  snow,  while  the  crystal  of  the  cups 
became  dull  and  cloudy  under  the  action  of  cold. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  9 

Thereupon  Scuda,  who  had  pretensions  to  learning 
(he  was  capable  of  confusing  Hecuba  with  Hecate), 
declaimed  proudly  the  only  line  of  Martial  he  could 
remember — 

Ca7idida  nigrescant  vetulo  crystalla  Falemo  ! 

**  Wait  a  moment.  Here  is  something  still  better,'* 
and  Syrax  plunged  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  drew 
thence  a  minute  flask  carved  out  of  on5^x,  and  with  a 
sensual  smile  poured  into  the  wine  a^drop  of  precious 
Arabian  cinnamon.  The  drop  fell,  and,  like  a  cream- 
ing pearl,  melted  into  the  b^jack  liquor.  A  strangely 
heavy  perfume  filled  the  room. 

While  the  tribune  was  slowly  drinking,  Syrax  made 
a  clacking  noise  with  his  tongue,  murmuring,  "  The 
wines  of  Biblos,  of  Lesbos,  of  Lathea  in  Chios,  of 
Icaria     .     .     .     are  less  than  nothing  to  this  wine !  " 

Night  was  falling.  Scuda  gave  the  order  to  get 
ready  to  march.  The  legionaries  began  putting  on 
their  armour,  fastened  the  greave  protecting  the  right 
leg,  and  took  up  bucklers  and  lances.  When  they 
entered  the  outer  hall,  the  Icarian  shepherds,  who 
were  brigands  rather  than  shepherds,  seated  near  the 
fire,  rose  respectfully  before  the  Roman  tribune.  Scuda, 
full  of  a  sense  of  his  own  rank  and  valour,  felt  the 
blood  burning  in  his  veins  and  his  head  buzzing  with 
the  effect  of  the  marvellous  liquor. 

On  the  threshold  a  man  approached  him.  He  wore 
a  strange  oriental  costume — a  white  tunic,  striped 
with  broad  red  bands,  and  on  his  head  a  high  head- 
dress of  woven  camel's  hair,  and  a  towering  Persian 
tiara.  Scuda  halted.  The  visage  of  the  Mede  was 
finely  cut,  lengthy  and  meagre,  and  yellow  of  hue 
rather  than  olive.     The  narrow  and  piercing  eyes 


lo  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

sparkled  maliciously,  but  all  his  movements  were  calm 
and  majestic.  He  was  one  of  those  wandering  magi- 
cians who  haughtily  declared  themselves  Chaldeans, 
seers,  and  mathematicians.  He  announced  to  the 
tribune  that  his  name  was  Nogodares.  Sojourning  by 
chance  with  Syrax,  he  was  travelling  from  the  distant 
Hyrcania  towards  the  coasts  of  the  Ionian  sea,  to  meet 
the  celebrated  warlock  philosopher,  Maximus  of  Ephe- 
sus.  The  magician  begged  for  authority  to  prove  his 
art  and  to  divine  the  happy  fortune  of  the  tribune. 

The  shutters  were  closed.  The  Mede  was  preparing 
something  on  the  ground;  suddenly  a  slight  crackling 
was  heard  ;  everybody  was  silent  and  a  flame  rose  in  a 
long  red  tongue  amidst  wafted  flakes  of  white  smoke, 
which  filled  the  room.  Nogodares  put  his  pale  lips  to 
a  double  flute,  and  played  a  languid,  plaintive  air,  like 
the  funeral  songs  of  the  Lydians.  The  flame  grew 
yellow  —  grew  fainter,  then  sparkled  anew  in  pale 
flashes.  The  sorcerer  threw  into  the  fire  a  handful  of 
dried  herbs.  They  evaporated  in  a  penetrating  aroma 
which  brought  on  the  senses  an  indefinable  melancholy, 
like  the  perfume  of  half-withered  grasses,  on  some 
misty  evening,  in  the  arid  plains  of  Arachosia  and 
Drangiana.  Obeying  the  plaintive  call  of  the  flute,  a 
huge  serpent  slid  out  of  a  black  box  placed  at  the 
feet  of  the  magician,  and  slowly,  with  a  sound  as  of 
parchments  rubbed  together,  unwound  its  glittering 
and  metallic  coils.  The  wizard  chanted  in  a  broken 
voice,  which  seemed  to  come  from  afar,  and  several 
times  repeated  the  same  syllables,  ''Mara,  mai^a, 
mara  !  ' '  The  serpent  coiled  itself  round  his  thin  body 
and  caressingly,  with  a  tender  hissing,  brought  its  flat 
green  head  and  brilliant  carbuncled  eyes  close  to  the 
ear  of  the  enchanter.     A  whistling,  and  the  forked 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  n 

sting  flashed,  as  if  the  reptile  had  murmured  its  secret 
to  its  master,  who  now  threw  the  flute  upon  the 
ground.  The  flame  filled  anew  the  room  with  thick 
smoke,  this  time  diffusing  an  odour  choking  as  if  ex- 
haled from  the  tomb.  The  flame  went  out.  Darkness 
and  fear  possessed  all  present  ;  everybody  felt  it  diffi- 
cult to  breathe.  But  when  the  open  shutters  allowed 
the  leaden  light  of  the  dusk  to  enter,  there  remained 
no  trace  of  the  snake  or  of  the  black  box.  Notwith- 
standing this,  everybody's  face  was  livid. 

Nogodares  approached  the  tribune — 

**  Rejoice  !  Favour  —  great  and  speedy  favour  — 
awaits  thee  from  thy  great  master  Augustus  Con- 
stantius  !  " 

During  several  moments  he  scrutinised  the  hand  of 
Scuda  narrowly.  Then,  stooping  to  the  level  of  his 
ear,  muttered,  so  as  to  be  heard  by  none  but  the 
tribune — 

' '  This  hand  is  dyed  with  blood  —  the  blood  of  a 
great  prince ! ' ' 

Scuda  grew  afraid. 

"  What  dost  thou  dare  to  say,  cursed  hound  of  a 
Chaldean  ?     I  am  a  loyal  servant." 

But  the  other  probed  him  with  his  searching  eye;: 
and  half  ironically  responded — 

**  What  dost  thou  fear  ?  Given  a  few  years.  .  .  . 
And  is  glory  won  without  the  spilling  of  blood  ?  " 

Pride  and  joy  filled  the  heart  of  Scuda  when  at  the 
head  of  his  soldiery  he  quitted  the  tavern.  He  drew 
near  the  sacred  fountain,  crossed  himself,  and  quaffed 
that  virtuous  water,  invoking  in  a  fervent  prayer  St. 
Cosmas  and  St.  Damian,  that  the  prediction  of  Nogo- 
dares should  not  fall  fruitless.  Then  he  vaulted 
upon  his  haughty  Cappadocian  charger  and  gave  the 


12  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

legionaries  the  order  "  March."  The  standard-bearer 
raised  the  ensign  above  his  bared  head.  It  was  the 
image  of  a  large  dragon,  fixed  upon  a  lance,  with 
gaping  jaws  of  silver  and  the  rest  of  its  body  formed  of 
coloured  silk.  Unable  to  withstand  the  wish  to  parade 
before  the  crowd  assembled  at  the  door  of  the  inn,  and 
although  conscious  of  peril,  intoxicated  with  wine  and 
pride,  the  tribune  stretched  his  sword  up  the  misty 
road,  and  in  a  loud  voice  commanded — 

"  To  Macellum  !  " 

A  hum  of  astonishment  ran  through  the  crowd. 
The  names  of  Julian  and  of  Gallus  were  uttered.  The 
legionary  who  led  the  column  raised  his  skyward- 
twisted  horn,  sounded  it,  and  the  echoing  note  of  the 
Roman  trumpet  vibrated  away  amongst  the  mountains. 


II 


A   PROFOUND    obscurity    reigned    in   the  great 
sleeping-chamber  of  Macellum,  an  ancient  palace 
of  Cappadocian  princes. 

The  bed  of  the  young  Julian  was  very  hard, — a 
wooden  pallet,  laid  with  a  panther-skin.  So  the  young 
Julian  himself  willed  it,  being  bred  in  the  austere 
principles  of  the  Stoics  by  Mardonius,  his  tutor,  a  pas- 
sionate disciple  of  ancient  philosophy. 

Julian  was  not  asleep.  The  wind,  blowing  in  fierce 
gusts,  howled  like  an  imprisoned  beast  between  the 
chinks  of  the  walls.  Then  all  fell  back  again  into 
silence,  and  in  the  intent  pause  large  drops  of  rain 
could  be  heard  splashing  from  the  height  of  the  roof 
upon  the  ringing  flagstones.  The  keen  ear  of  Julian 
detected  at  moments  the  rustling  of  the  rapid  flight  of  a 
bat.  He  distinguished,  too,  the  regular  breathing  of 
his  brother,  a  delicate  and  girlish  lad,  who  slept  upon 
a  soft  bed  under  mouldy  hangings,  the  last  trace  of 
luxury  in  this  deserted  castle.  In  the  next  room  could 
be  heard  the  heavy  snore  of  Mardonius. 

Suddenly,  the  door  of  the  secret  staircase  in  the  wall 
turned  softly  upon  its  hinges.  A  bright  light  dazzled 
Julian. 

Labda,  an  old  slave,  entered,  carrying  in  her  hand  a 
metallic  lamp. 

"  Nurse,  I  'm  afraid  !  Don't  take  the  lamp 
away.     ..." 

13 


14  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  old  woman  placed  the  lamp  in  a  stone  niche 
above  the  head  of  Julian. 

**  Can  you  not  sleep  ?  You  are  not  in  pain  ?  Are 
you  hungry  ?  That  old  sinner  Mardonius  always 
keeps  you  fasting.  I  've  brought  you  cakes  of  honey. 
They  're  good.     .     .     .     Taste  !  " 

Making  Julian  eat  was  the  favourite  occupation  of 
Labda  ;  but  she  dared  not  indulge  in  it  by  day — dread- 
ing the  severe  Mardonius  —  and  so  brought  her  deli- 
cacies mysteriously  under  cover  of  night.  Labda,  who 
was  purblind  and  could  scarcely  drag  her  limbs  along, 
always  wore  the  black  religious  habit.  Although  a 
devout  Christian,  she  was  regarded  as  being  in  reality 
a  Thessalian  sorceress.  The  grimmest  superstitions, 
old  and  new,  fused  in  her  brain  into  a  strange  religion 
not  far  removed  from  madness.  She  mingled  prayers 
with  spells,  Olympian  gods  with  demons.  Christian 
rites  with  the  black  arts.  Her  body  was  behung  with 
crosses,  and  amulets  carved  out  of  the  bones  of  the 
dead ;  and  scapularies,  containing  the  ashes  of  martyrs, 
swung  from  her  shoulders.  The  old  woman  felt  for 
Julian  a  pious  affection,  regarding  him  as  the  sole  and 
legitimate  successor  of  Constantine  the  Great,  and 
holding  Constantius,  the  reigning  Kmperor,  a  murderer 
and  a  usurper. 

lyabda  knew  better  than  anybody  the  family  tree  and 
traditions  of  the  race  of  the  Flavii.  She  remembered 
the  grandfather  of  Julian,  Constantius  Chlorus.  The 
murderous  mysteries  of  the  Court  lingered  on,  inefface- 
able, in  her  memory  ;  and  many  a  time  at  night  would 
she  tell  them  to  Julian,  keeping  nothing  back,  so 
that  he,  at  the  narrative  of  events  which  his  childish 
brain  could  not  yet  comprehend,  felt  his  heart  gri]~ped 
by  fear  and  indignation.     With  dull  eyes,   in  a  low 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  15 

monotonous  listless  sing-song,  Labda,  looking  like  one 
of  the  Fates,  would  recite  these  gruesome  epic  tales  of 
a  few  years  ago,  as  if  they  had  been  so  many  legends 
of  remotest  antiquity. 

Placing  the  lamp  in  a  stone  niche,  I^abda  blessed 
Julian,  with  a  sign  of  the  cross;  ascertained  that  the 
amulet  of  amber  was  safe  on  his  breast,  and,  pronounc- 
ing some  charms  to  exorcise  ill  spirits,  vanished. 

A  heavy  half- slumber  fell  upon  Julian.  It  was 
warm  ;  great  drops  of  rain,  descending  in  silence  as 
into  the  bottom  of  a  sonorous  vessel,  lulled  him  into 
languor.  He  knew  not  whether  he  was  awake  or 
asleep  ;  whether  it  was  the  breathing  of  the  wind  or 
I^abda  which  was  murmuring  at  his  ear  the  terrible 
secrets  of  his  family.  All  that  he  had  learnt  from  her, 
and  all  that  he  had  seen  in  infancy,  fused  into  a  single 
fearful  dream. 

.  .  .  He  sees  the  dead  body  of  the  great  Emperor 
upon  a  splendid  bier.  The  corpse  is  painted  ;  and  the 
head  adorned  by  the  deftest  of  barbers  with  an  in- 
genious dress  of  false  hair.  Julian,  brought  thither  to 
kiss  the  hand  of  his  uncle  for  the  last  time,  is  afraid. 
The  purple,  the  diadem,  with  its  stones  glittering 
under  the  flame  of  torches,  dazzle  him.  Through  the 
heavy  Arabian  perfumes,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  comes  into  contact  with  the  odour  of  a  corpse.  But 
bishops,  eunuchs,  generals,  acclaim  the  Emperor  as  if 
he  were  alive  ;  and  the  ambassadors  bow  down  before 
him  and  return  thanks,  observing  all  the  punctilious 
ceremony  of  diplomatic  etiquette.  Scribes  read  out 
the  edicts,  the  laws,  the  decrees  of  the  senate,  and 
implore  the  approval  of  the  dead  man  ;  a  flatter- 
ing murmur  surges  to  and  fro  among  the  multi- 
tudes; they  declare  that  he,  the  Emperor,  is  so  great 


i6  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

that  by  a  special  mercy  of  Providence  lie  reigns  af  .e? 
death. 

The  child  knows  that  he  whom  all  glorify  has  killed 
his  own  son,  a  brave  young  man,  whose  only  fault  lay 
in  the  people's  too  great  love  of  him.  This  son  had 
been  slandered  by  his  stepmother,  who  loved  him  with 
an  unholy  love,  and  had  taken  her  revenge  upon  him 
thus  as  Phaedra  upon  Hippolytus.  Afterwards  the  wife 
of  Constantine  had  been  surprised  in  adulterous  inti- 
macy with  a  slave  of  the  Imperial  stables  and  had  been 
stifled  in  a  bath  heated  to  a  white  heat.  And  so  on, 
corpse,  upon  corpse,  victim  after  victim.  Finally,  tor- 
mented by  conscience,  Constantine  the  Great  had  im- 
plored priests  to  shrive  his  soul  from  guilt.  He  was 
refused.  Thereupon  the  Bishop  Ozius  succeeded  in 
convincing  him  that  one  religion  only  possessed  the 
power  of  purifying  from  sins  like  his.  And  therefore 
it  had  come  to  pass  that  now  the  sumptuous  Labarum^ 
the  standard  bearing  wrought  in  precious  stones  the 
monogram  of  Christ,  glittered  above  the  catafalque  of 
the  parricide. 

Julian  strove  to  awake,  to  open  his  eyes,  and  could 
not. 

Ringing  drops  fell  continually,  like  heavy  tears,  and 
the  wind  blew  on  :  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was 
Labda,  the  old  Fate,  babbling  near  him  with  her  tooth- 
less gums  the  terrible  tales  of  the  Flavii. 

Julian  dreamed  again.  He  was  in  the  subterranean 
vaults  of  Constantius  Chlorus,  surrounded  by  porphyry 
sarcophagi  containing  the  ashes  of  kings.  Ivabda  is 
hiding  him  in  one  of  the  darkest  corners  and  has 
wrapped  in  her  cloak  the  sickly  Gallus,  who  is  shiver- 
ing with  fever.  Suddenly,  above  their  heads  in  the 
palace,  groanings  resound  from  room  to  room. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  17 

Julian  recognises  the  voice  of  his  father  ;  struggles 
to  answer  him  —  to  run  to  his  aid  —  but  Labda  holds 
back  the  child,  murmuring,  **  Quiet  !  quiet  !  or  they 
will  be  upon  us  !  "  and  hides  him  under  her  chlamys. 
Hasty  steps  clatter  upon  the  staircase  —  come  nearer 
and  nearer  still  ;  the  door  bursts  into  shivers  and  the 
soldiers  of  Caesar,  disguised  as  monks,  invade  the  vault. 
The  Bishop  Eusebius  of  Nicomedia  directs  the  search  ; 
and  coats  of  mail  glitter  under  the  black  robes  of  the 
searchers. 

' '  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost,  answer — who  is  there  ? ' ' 

Labda  is  crouching  in  a  corner,  still  locking  the 
children  to  her  breast.     Again  comes  the  solemn  cry — 

* '  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost — who  is  there  ?  " 

The  legionaries,  sword  in  hand,  explore  every  hole 
and  corner  ;  Labda  throws  herself  at  their  feet ;  shows 
them  the  sickly  Gallus  and  Julian,  defenceless — 

' '  Fear  God  !  what  harm  can  a  six-year-old  innocent 
like  this  do  to  the  Emperor  ?  ' ' 

And  the  legionaries  force  all  the  kneeling  three  to 
kiss  the  cross  which  Eusebius  holds  out  to  them,  and 
to  take  the  oath  of  faithfulness  to  the  new  Emperor. 
Julian  remembers  the  great  cross  of  C3^press-wood. 
There  was  an  enamelled  picture  of  Christ  on  it.  On 
the  dark  base  of  the  wood  stains  of  fresh  blood  were 
still  visible,  imprinted  by  the  fingers  of  the  cross-bear- 
ing assassin. 

Was  it  the  blood  of  the  father  of  Julian,  or  of  one  of 
his  six  cousins,  Dalmatius,  Hannibal,  Nepotian,  Con- 
stantine  the  Younger,  or  of  the  others  ?  The  mur- 
derer, in  order  to  ascend  the  throne,  had  taken  six 
corpses  in  his  stride,  doing  each  deed  in  the  name  of 


1 8  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

the  Crucified.  And  still  round  the  tyrant,  day  after 
day,  rose  the  cloud  of  victims,  a  multitude  which  no 
man  could  number. 

Julian  awoke  full  of  fears.  The  rain  had  ceased  and 
the  wind  fallen.  The  lamp  burned  steadily  in  its  niche. 
Julian  sat  up  on  his  bed,  listening  in  the  silence  to  the 
beatings  of  his  own  heart.  The  hush  seemed  curi- 
ously insupportable.  Suddenly,  voices  and  steps  re- 
sounded from  room  to  room,  reverberated  along  the 
high  arcades  of  Macellum  as  formerly  along  the  vaults 
of  the  Flavii.  Julian  shivered.  It  seemed  to  him  thai 
he  was  dreaming  still. 

The  steps  approached  ;  the  voices  became  distinct. 

The  lad  cried  out,  *'  Gallus,  awake  !  Mardonius, 
don't  you  hear  something  ?  " 

Gallus  awoke.  Barefooted,  his  grey  hair  dishevelled, 
and  clothed  in  a  short  sleeping-tunic,  Mardonius,  his 
face  bloated,  yellow  and  wrinkled  like  an  old  woman's, 
rushed  towards  the  secret  door. 

''The  soldiers  of  the  Prefect!  .  .  .  Dress!  .  .  . 
We  must  fly." 

He  was  too  late.  The  grinding  of  iron  bolts  told 
that  the  door  was  being  shut  from  the  outside.  The 
stone  columns  of  the  public  staircase  flushed  with  the 
light  of  torches,  illumining  the  purple  dragon  of  a 
standard-bearer  and  the  cross  upon  the  breastplates  of 
legionaries. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  most  orthodox  and  blessed 
Augustus,  Constantius  Imperator  !  I,  Marcus  Scuda, 
Tribune  of  the  Fretensian  Legion,  take  under  my  safe- 
guard Julian  and  Gallus,  sons  of  the  Patrician,  Julius 
Flavins  !" 

Mardonius,  with  drawn  sword,  stood  in  a  warlike 
attitude  in  front  of  the  closed  door  of  the  chamber, 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  19 

barring  the  way  of  the  soldiers.  This  glaive  was  rusty 
and  useless,  and  served  the  old  tutor  only  to  show, 
during  his  lessons  in  the  Iliad,  how  Hector  used  to 
fight  Achilles.  At  this  moment  Mardonius,  although 
he  would  have  been  incapable  of  killing  a  hen,  was 
brandishing  the  sword  in  the  face  of  Publius,  according 
to  the  most  correct  traditions  of  Homeric  warfare. 
Publius,  who  was  drunk,  flew  into  a  passion  : 

**  Get  out  of  my  way,  windbag  !  Clear  out,  I  tell 
you,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  slit  you!  " 

He  seized  Mardonius  by  the  throat  and  hurled  him 
against  the  wall. 

Scuda  ran  to  the  door  of  the  chamber  and  opened  it. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  beheld  the  two  last  de- 
scendants of  Constantius  Chlorus.  Gallus  seemed  tall 
and  strong,  but  his  skin  was  fine  and  white  as  a 
young  girl's  ;  his  eyes,  of  a  wan  blue,  were  indolent 
and  listless  ;  his  flaxen  hair,  the  distinguishing  trait 
of  the  house  of  Constantine,  spread  in  curls  over  his 
powerful  neck.  But  in  spite  of  his  masculine  appear- 
ance, downy  beard,  and  eighteen  years,  Gallus  at  that 
moment  looked  a  child.  His  lips  trembled,  he  blinked 
sleep-swollen  eyelids,  and,  crossing  himself,  continu- 
ally whispered:  "  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  me  !  " 

Julian  was  a  thin  child,  sickly  and  pale,  with  irregu- 
lar features,  thick  glossy  black  hair,  too  long  a  nose, 
and  a  too  prominent  lower  lip.  But  his  eyes  were 
astonishing.  Large,  strange,  and  variable,  they  shone 
with  a  brightness  rare  in  a  child's  eyes,  and  an  almost 
morbid  or  insane  concentration. 

Publius,  who  in  his  youth  had  often  seen  Constantine 
the  Great,  mused —  / 

*'  That  little  rascal  will  be  like  his  uncle  !  " 

In  the  presence  of  the  soldiers  fear  abandoned  Julian. 


20  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

He  was  only  conscious  of  anger.  With  closed  teeth, 
the  panther-skiK  of  his  bed  flung  over  his  shoulder, 
he  gazed  at  Scuda  fixedly,  his  lower  lip  trembling  with 
bridled  rage.  In  his  right  hand,  hidden  by  the  fur,  he 
gripped  the  handle  of  a  slim  Persian  dagger  given  him 
by  Labda  ;  it  was  tipped  with  the  keenest  of  poisons. 

*'  A  true  wolfs  cub  !  "  said  one  of  the  legionaries, 
pointing  out  Julian  to  his  companion. 

Scuda  was  about  to  cross  the  threshold  of  the  cham- 
ber, when  a  wild  chance  of  safety  flashed  upon  Mar- 
donius.  Throwing  aside  his  tragic  sword,  he  seized 
the  mantle  of  the  tribune,  and  began  to  scream  in  a 
shrill  feminine  voice: 

''  Do  you  know  what  you  're  doing,  rascals  ?  How 
dare  you  insult  an  envoy  of  Constantius  ?  It  is  I  who 
am  charged  to  conduct  these  two  young  princes  to 
Court.  The  august  Emperor  has  restored  them  to  his 
favour.     Here  is  the  order  from  Contantinople  !  " 

**  What  is  he  saying  ?     .     .     .     what  order  is  it  ?  " 

Scuda  stared  at  Mardonius.  His  faded  and  wrinkled 
visage  was  unmistakably  that  of  a  eunuch  ;  and  the 
tribune  knew  well  what  special  favour  eunuchs  enjoyed 
at  Court. 

Mardonius  hunted  in  a  drawer,  lit  on  a  roll  of  parch- 
ment, held  it  out  to  the  tribune,  who  unrolled  it  and 
immediately  grew  pale.  He  only  read  the  first  lines, 
but  saw  the  name  of  the  Emperor,  who  referred  to 
himself  in  the  edict  as  Our  Eternity, — Nostra  cEternitas, 
— but  remarked  neither  the  date  nor  the  year. 

When  he  perceived,  swinging  from  the  parchment, 
the  great  Imperial  seal  of  dark  green  wax,  attached  by 
golden  threads,  his  eyes  clouded  ;  he  felt  his  knees 
give  way — 

"  Pardon,  there  is  some  mistake    .     .     .** 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  21 

"  Away  with  you  !  away  with  you  at  once  !  the 
Emperor  shall  know  everything  !  "  retorted  Mardon- 
ius,  hastily  snatching  the  decree  from  the  trembling 
hands  of  Scuda. 

**  Don't  ruin  us  !  We  are  all  brothers,  we  're  all 
sinners  !     I  entreat  you  in  the  name  of  Christ  !  " 

*'  I  know  what  acts  you  commit,  in  the  name  of 
Christ!     Go!     Go  at  once." 

The  tribune  gave  the  order  to  retire.  A  single 
drunken  legionary  tried,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  to 
hustle  Mardonius  ;  but  they  overbore  the  rioter  by 
main  force. 

When  the  sound  of  steps  died  away,  and  Mardonius 
was  assured  that  all  peril  was  over,  he  was  seized  by  a 
wild  fit  of  laughter  which  shook  the  whole  of  his  soft 
fleshy  person.  Forgetting  all  tutorial  dignity,  the  old 
man  in  his  short  night  tunic  began  to  dance,  crying 
out  gleefully — 

"  Children,  children  !  Glory  to  Hermes  !  We  've 
hoodwinked  them  cleverly  1  That  edict  was  annulled 
three  years  ago  !     Ah,  the  idiots,  the  idiots  !  " 

At  the  breaking  of  dawn,  Julian  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep.  He  awoke  late,  refreshed  and  light-hearted, 
when  the  sun  was  shining  brightly  into  the  room 
through  the  great  iron-clamped  window. 


Ill 


THEIR  lesson  in  doctrinal  theology  was  taught  to 
the  lads  in  the  morning  by  an  Arian  priest. 
Long  and  dry  as  a  lath,  he  had  green  eyes,  damp  and 
bony  hands.  This  monk,  who  was  named  Eutropius, 
had  the  disagreeable  habit  of  gently  licking  the  hollow 
of  his  palm,  smoothing  his  grey  hair,  and  immediately 
afterwards  making  his  finger-joints  crack.  Julian 
knew  that  one  movement  would  inevitably  follow  the 
other,  and  used  to  get  madly  irritated. 

Eutropius  wore  an  old  black  cassock,  full  of  stains 
and  patches.  He  used  to  say  that  he  wore  it  out  of 
humility,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  it  from 
miserliness. 

Such  was  the  instructor  chosen  by  Eusebius  of  Nico- 
media,  the  religious  guardian  of  Julian. 

This  monk  suspected  in  his  pupil  a  certain  yeast  of 
moral  perversity,  which,  unless  cured,  would  draw 
upon  Julian  eternal  damnation. 

And  Eutropius  used  to  talk  continually  of  the  grate- 
ful feelings  the  boy  should  show  towards  his  benefactor 
the  Emperor  Constantius.  Whether  he  was  explaining 
the  text  of  the  Bible,  expounding  Arian  dogmas,  or  in- 
terpreting an  apostolic  parable,  all  lessons  were  con- 
ducted to  the  same  conclusion,  the  "  roc»t  of  holy 
obedience  and  filial  docility."  And  when  the  Arian 
monk  spoke  of  the  benefits  granted  to  Julian  by  the 
Emperor,  the  child  would  fix  upon  him  his  deep 
glance;  but  although  each  knew  the  intimate  thoughts 

82 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  23 

of  the  other,  never  did  pupil  and  professor  exchange  a 
word  upon  the  subject.  Only  if  Julian  stopped,  forget- 
ting some  text,  or  became  confused  in  the  chronological 
list  of  Old  Testament  patriarchs,  or  repeated  badly  the 
prayer  he  had  learned  by  heart,  Eutropius  would 
silently  gaze  at  him,  take  his  ear  caressingly  between 
two  fingers,  and  two  long  and  sharp  finger  nails  would 
slowly  pierce  the  flesh. 

Eutropius,  despite  his  morose  look,  was  endowed 
with  a  certain  ironical  gaiety.  He  gave  his  pupils  the 
most  affectionate  of  nicknames,  while  ridiculing  their 
imperial  origin.  When,  after  pinching  Julian's  ear, 
he  saw  him  grow  pale,  not  with  pain  but  with  rage,  he 
would  whisper  in  humility — 

"  Your  Majesty  does  not  deign  to  feel  anger  against 
Eutropius,  his  humble  and  unlearned  slave?"  and, 
licking  the  palm  of  his  hand,  he  would  smooth  the  grey 
locks  of  his  temples,  crack  his  long  fingers,  and  add 
that  it  was  wholesome  sometimes  to  give  naughty, 
idle  little  boys  a  whipping  ;  that  form  of  instruction 
being  often  mentioned  in  Holy  Writ  as  the  most  effec- 
tive means  of  enlightening  the  souls  of  the  dark  and 
disobedient.  He  used  only  to  say  it  to  tame  the  dia- 
bolic pride  of  Julian,  who,  moreover,  was  well  aware 
that  Eutropius  would  never  dare  to  put  his  threat  into 
execution.  The  monk  himself  was  convinced  that  the 
child  would  rather  die  than  undergo  such  a  humilia- 
tion. But  the  tutor,  nevertheless,  loved  to  discourse 
upon  the  topic  often  and  long. 

.  At  the  end  of  the  lesson,  during  the  explanation  of 
a  text,  Julian  once  mentioned  the  earth's  antipodes, 
about  which  he  had  heard  Mardonius  speaking.  He 
had  done  this  with  the  secret  intention  of  annoying 
the  monk,  but  Eutropius  became  jocular. 


24  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

*'  Who  's  been  talking  to  you  about '  antipodes,'  my 
angel  ?  lyittle  sinner,  how  you  do  make  me  laugh  ! 
That  old  fool  of  a  Plato  did,  I  know,  write  something 
about  it.  But  are  you  actually  wise  enough  to  believe 
that  men  walk  about  on  their  heads  ?  " 

Eutropius  would  launch  forth  into  accusations  of 
heresy  against  the  philosophers.  Was  it  not  a  scandal 
to  imagine  that  mankind  —  created  after  the  image  of 
God — could  walk  about  upside  down,  and  so  bring 
Heaven  into  contempt  ?  And  when  Julian,  insulted  by 
insults  to  his  favourite  philosophers,  argued  that  the 
e  .rth  was  shaped  like  a  globe,  Eutropius  became 
serious  and  lost  his  temper,  purple  with  fury  and 
stamping  his  feet — 

"It  's  that  heathen,  Mardonius,  who  teaches  you 
these  godless  lies!  " 

When  he  got  angry  he  would  splutter  and  shower 
the  hearer  with  his  spittle,  which  Julian  believed  must 
be  venomous.  Exasperated,  the  monk  would  savagely 
attack  all  the  Greek  sages.  Wounded  to  the  quick  by 
the  suggestions  of  Julian,  forgetting  that  his  pupil  was 
a  mere  child,  he  burst  into  serious  harangues,  accusing 
Pythagoras  of  being  mad,  impudent,  audacious,  affirm- 
ing that  the  atrocious  "  Utopias  "  of  Plato  were  not  fit 
to  read,  and  that  the  instruction  of  Socrates  was  clean 
against  reason. 

*'  Read  what  Diogenes  Laertius  says  of  Socrates  ! 
You  will  see  that  not  only  was  he  a  money-lender,  but 
that  he  practised  vices  which  no  decent  man  can  name." 

Epicurus,  above  all,  excited  the  whole  of  his  rancoui:; 
the  beastliness  with  which  he  plunged  into  pleasures 
of  all  kinds,  the  brutality  with  which  he  used  to  satisfy 
his  sensual  desires,  were  proof  enough  that  he  was  less 
than  human. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  25 

Resuming  something  of  his  habitual  calm,  Kutropius 
on  this  particular  day  betook  himself  to  explaining 
some  hair-splitting  scholastic  distinction  of  the  Arian 
dogma,  and  waxed  wroth  with  the  same  heat  against 
the  orthodox  oecumenical  Church,  which  he  considered 
heretical. 

From  the  splendid  and  desolate  garden  a  warm 
breeze  came  in  through  the  open  window.  Julian 
feigned  to  listen  to  Eutropius.  Really  he  was  dream- 
ing of  a  very  different  person,  his  well-loved  teacher 
Mardonius.  He  recollected  his  wise  lectures;  his  read- 
ings of  Homer  and  Hesiod  —  how  different  from  these 
monkish  lessons! 

Mardonius  did  not  read  Homer ;  following  the  custom 
of  the  ancient  rhapsodists,  he  used  to  chant  the  poems, 
to  the  great  amusement  of  Labda,  who  was  wont  to 
say  that  he  bayed  like  a  dog  at  the  moon.  And  in  fact 
he  did  appear  absurd  to  folk  who  heard  him  for  the 
first  time.  The  eunuch  would  punctiliously  scan  each 
foot  of  the  hexameter,  beating  time  with  his  hand. 
And  while  his  yellow  and  wrinkled  visage  remained 
intensely  rapt,  his  shrill  feminine  voice  streamed  on 
from  strophe  to  strophe.  Julian  never  remarked  the 
ugliness  of  the  old  man,  seeing  only  the  throbbing  pas- 
sion of  a  soul  thrilled  by  grandeur  and  beauty. 

His  listener  trembled,  while  the  divine  hexameters 
rose  and  shouted  like  waves.  He  saw  the  farewells  of 
Andromache  and  Hector  ;  the  wanderings  of  Ulysses, 
weeping  for  Ithaca  on  the  melancholy  and  sterile  beach 
of  Calypso's  island.  Delicious  sorrow  seized  the  heart 
of  Julian ;  pains  of  yearning  for  Hellas,  the  country  of 
the  gods,  eternally  beautiful,  land  of  all  beauty- 
worshippers.  Tears  shook  in  the  voice  of  the  teacher, 
and  rolled  down  his  withered  cheeks. 


\J 


26  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Sometimes  Mardonius  would  talk  with  the  boy  of 
goodness,  of  the  austerity  of  virtue,  of  the  death 
of  heroes  for  freedom's  sake.  Little  indeed,  oh  ! 
how  little,  did  these  lessons  resemble  those  given  by 
Butropius. 

Mardonius  used  also  to  narrate  the  life  of  Socrates; 
and  when  he  came  to  the  "Apology,"  delivered  by  the 
philosopher  before  his  death  to  the  people  of  Athens, 
the  old  master  would  rise,  and  triumphantly  declaim 
the  speech  from  memory,  a  calm  irony  lighting  his  face. 
These  were  less  the  phrases  of  a  man  accused,  than  the 
ringing  tones  of  a  judge  addressing  the  people. 

*'  Socrates  does  not  ask  for  pardon.  All  the  power, 
all  the  laws  of  a  government  are  absolutely  nothing  be- 
side the  liberty  of  the  soul  of  man.  Yes !  the  Athenians 
can  kill  a  man  without  taking  from  him  the  freedom 
and  the  happiness  of  his  immortal  soul."  And  when 
this  barbarian,  this  ex-slave  from  the  banks  of  the 
Borysthenes,  pronounced  the  word  *'  liberty"  it  seemed 
to  Julian  that  the  word  contained  such  superhuman 
power  that  beside  it  even  the  Homeric  pictures  lost 
lustre.  Fixing  on  his  master  his  great  wide,  haunting 
eyes,  the  lad  shook  with  enthusiasm. 

The  cold  touch  of  a  hand  at  his  ear  drew  Julian  from 
his  dreams.  The  lesson  of  the  catechist  was  finished. 
On  his  knees  he  recited  the  prayer  of  thanksgiving  ; 
then  escaping  from  Eutropius  he  ran  to  his  room,  took 
down  a  book,  and  hastened  to  a  solitary  nook  in  the 
garden  to  read  at  ease  the  Symposium  of  Plato,  the 
pagan,  a  book  forbidden  above  all  others.  On  the  stairs 
Julian  met  the  monk,  who  was  departing — 

**  Wait,  my  dear  boy  !  What  book  is  your  Majesty 
carrying  ?  " 

Julian  stared  at  him  and  tranquilly  tendered  the 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  27 

volume.  On  the  parchment  binding  Eutropius  read 
the  title,  written  in  great  capitals,  '*  The  Epistles  of  St. 
Paul  the  Apostle,"  and  gave  back  the  book  unopened. 

**  That  's  all  right  !  Remember  that  I  have  to  an- 
swer for  your  soul  to  God  and  to  the  sublime  Emperor. 
Don't  read  heretical  books,  especially  none  of  those 
frivolous  philosophers  whom  I  have  to-day  con- 
demned. ' ' 

It  was  the  habitual  trick  of  the  boy  to  wrap  danger- 
ous books  in  innocent  bindings.  Julian  from  his  infancy 
had  learnt  dissimulation,  and  even  took  pleasure  in  de- 
ceiving others,  especially  Eutropius.  He  dissembled 
and  lied  needlessly  and  habitually,  prompted  by  deep- 
seated  anger  and  revenge.  To  Mardonius  alone  his 
behaviour  was  always  open  and  gracious. 

Intrigues,  scandals,  gossipings,  suspicions  continu- 
ally arose  at  Macellum  among  the  numberless  idle 
servants.  The  whole  pack  of  varletry,  in  the  hope  ol 
Court  favour,  subjected  the  two  disgraced  young  princes 
to  espionage  by  night  and  day.  I^ong  as  Julian  could 
remember,  death  was  an  hourly  expectation.  Little 
by  little  he  had  accustomed  himself  to  perpetual  fear, 
being  quite  aware  that  neither  in  the  house  nor  garden 
could  he  take  a  step  or  make  a  gesture  unperceived  by 
a  thousand  intent  but  invisible  eyes.  Hearing  and 
understanding  much  of  the  toils  about  him,  the  boy 
was  forced  to  feign  ignorance.  At  one  time  it  was 
the  conversation  between  Eutropius  and  a  spy  sent  by 
the  Emperor  Constantius,  in  which  the  monk  named 
Julian  and  Gallus  "  the  imperial  scourges  "  ;  at  another 
time,  in  the  gallery  under  the  kitchen  windows,  it  was 
the  meditation  of  a  cook,  furious  at  some  insolence  on 
the  part  of  Gallus.  She  was  saying  to  the  washer- up 
of  the  dishes,  '*  God  save  my  soul,  Priscilla,  but  what 


28  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

I  can't  make  out  is,  why  they  have  n't  strangled  them 
before  !  " 

To-day,  when  Julian,  after  his  lesson  in  theology, 
went  out  of  the  house  and  perceived  the  greenness  of 
the  trees,  he  breathed  more  freely.  The  two  peaks  of 
Mount  Argaeus,  covered  with  snow,  sparkled  against 
blue  sky.  The  neighbourhood  of  glaciers  made  the  air 
refreshingly  cool  ;  garden  alleys  stretched  hither  and 
thither  into  the  distance;  glistening  dark-green  foliage 
of  oaks  formed  thick  vaultings  ;  here  and  there  a  ray 
filtered  through  the  branches  of  plane-trees.  Only  one 
side  of  the  garden  was  not  walled  in,  for  in  that  direc- 
tion lay  a  chasm.  At  the  foot  of  the  plateau  on  which 
the  castle  stood,  a  dead  plain  stretched  as  far  as  Anti- 
Taurus,  and  from  this  plain  fierce  heat  rose  in  mist, 
while  in  the  garden  fresh  streams  were  running  and 
little  waterfalls  tinkling  through  thickets  of  oleanders. 

A  century  before  the  date  of  which  we  are  speaking 
Macellum  had  been  the  favourite  domain  and  pleasure- 
house  of  the  luxurious  and  half-mad  Ariarathes,  king 
of  Cappadocia. 

Julian  took  his  way  towards  an  isolated  grotto,  hard 
by  the  precipice,  in  which  a  statue  of  the  god  Pan, 
playing  the  flute,  stood  over  a  little  sacrificial  altar. 
Outside  the  grotto,  a  lion's  mouth  jetted  water  into  a 
stone  basin,  and  a  curtain  of  roses  masked  the  entrance 
while  letting  through  its  branches  a  view  of  the  un- 
dulating hills  and  the  plain,  far  down  and  drowned  in 
misty  blue.  The  perfume  of  roses  filled  the  little  cave, 
and  the  air  there  would  have  been  oppressive  had  it  not 
been  cooled  by  a  stream  channelled  in  the  rocky  floor. 

The  wind  scattered  the  turf  with  yellow  petals  of 
roses,  and  flung  them  floating  on  the  water  of  the 
basin.     From  the  dark  and  warm  place  of  shelter  could 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  29 

be  heard  the  humming  of  bees.  There  Julian,  stretched 
on  the  moss,  used  to  read  the  Ba?iquct  of  Plato,  under- 
standing nothing  of  many  of  the  passages  ;  but  their 
beauty  had  for  him  a  double  relish  because  it  was  a 
fruit  forbidden. 

When  his  reading  was  done,  Julian  wrapped  the  book 
anew  in  the  binding  of  the  *'  Epistles  of  the  Apostle 
Paul,"  went  up  to  the  altar  of  Pan,  gazed  at  the  joyous 
god  as  at  an  old  accomplice,  and,  thrusting  his  hand 
into  a  heap  of  dried  leaves,  drew  from  the  interior  of 
the  altar,  which  was  cracked  and  covered  with  a  piece 
of  board,  a  small  object  carefully  enveloped  in  cloth.  It 
was  his  own  handiwork — a  delightful  little  Liburnian 
trireme,  or  galley  with  three  banks  of  oars.  He  set  it 
swimming  in  the  basin  ;  the  galley  rocked  on  the  mini- 
ature waves.  The  model  was  complete, — three  masts, 
rigging,  oars,  gilded  prow,  and  sails  made  of  a  fragment 
of  purple  silk,  the  gift  of  Labda.  Nothing  was  want- 
ing but  to  fix  the  rudder,  and  the  boy  began  the  task. 

From  time  to  time,  while  planing  a  piece  of  board, 
he  would  look  into  the  distance,  at  the  hills  outlined 
in  mist  through  the  hedge  of  roses.  Beside  his  play- 
thing Julian  soon  forgot  all  vexations,  all  hates,  and 
the  eternal  fear  of  death.  In  this  little  cave  he  imagined 
himself  a  shipwrecked  sailor.  He  was  the  wily  Ulysses 
in  some  solitary  cavern  facing  the  ocean,  building  a 
ship  in  which  he  might  win  back  again  to  Ithaca.  But 
down  yonder,  there  among  the  hills,  where  the  houses 
of  Caesarea  shone  white  as  the  sea-foam,  a  little  cross, 
glittering  high  above  the  roof  of  the  basilica,  irritated 
him  still.  That  everlasting  cross  I  Could  he  never  be 
free  of  it,  even  here  in  his  own  cave  ?  He  would  re- 
solve not  to  see  it,  and  stooping,  redoubled  his  attention 
to  the  galley. 


30  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

'  *  Julian !  "  a  voice  cried ; ' '  Julian,  Julian  !  Where  in 
the  world  is  he  ?  Kutropius  is  looking  for  you  to  go  to 
church  with  him." 

The  boy  shivered,  and  nimbly  hid  his  handiwork 
inside  the  altar  of  Pan.  He  smoothed  his  hair,  shook 
his  clothes,  and  when  he  came  out  of  the  grotto  had 
resumed  an  expression  of  impenetrable  Christian 
hypocrisy. 

Kutropius,  holding  Julian's  hand  in  his  bony  one, 
conducted  him  to  church. 


IV 

THE  Arian  basilica  of  St.  Maurice  was  built  almost 
entirely  of  blocks  taken  from  the  ruined  temple 
of  Apollo.  The  sacred  court,  the  atrium^  was  sur- 
rounded by  colonnades.  In  the  middle  of  this  court 
murmured  a  fountain,  placed  there  for  the  ablutions  of 
the  faithful.  Under  one  of  the  side  porticoes  lay  an 
ancient  oaken  tomb  darkened  with  age  ;  and  in  this 
tomb  were  the  wonder-working  bones  of  St.  Mamas, 
for  which  Eutropius  had  obliged  Julian  and  Gallus 
themselves  to  build  a  stone-work  shrine.  The  task  of 
Gallus,  who  took  to  it  as  to  a  game,  went  rapidly  for- 
ward, while  the  wall  of  Julian  frequently  crumbled  and 
proved  oddly  unsatisfactory  ;  a  phenomenon  which 
Eutropius  explained  by  remarking  that  St.  Mamas  re- 
fused the  offering  of  children  possessed  by  the  demon 
of  pride. 

The  halt,  the  maimed,  the  sick,  and  the  blind,  ex- 
pectant of  miracle,  thronged  near  the  tomb.  Julian 
understood  why  they  stationed  themselves  here.  One 
of  the  monks  used  to  hold  a  pair  of  balances  ;  the  pil- 
grims— some  of  them  come  from  hamlets  many  leagues 
away  —  weighed  with  scrupulous  care  pieces  of  linen, 
woollen  stuff,  or  silk  ;  and  having  laid  them  on  the 
tomb  of  St.  Mamas,  would  fall  to  praying  all  night. 
At  daylight  the  stuff  was  weighed  over  again,  and  the 
weight  compared  with  the  weight  on  the  previous  day. 
If  the  texture  proved  heavier,  it  was  declared  that  the 
prayer  had  been  answered,  that  the  divine  mercy,  like 


32  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

dew,  had  soaked  into  the  stuff  and  rendered  it  capable 
of  producing  all  manner  of  marvellous  cures. 

But  frequently  the  prayer  was  in  vain.  The  stuff" 
weighed  just  what  it  did  before  ;  and  pilgrims  would 
pass  whole  days,  weeks,  even  months,  waiting  at  the 
sepulchre.  Among  the  latter  there  was  an  old  woman 
named  Theodula.  Some  called  her  demented ;  others 
counted  her  a  saint.  For  years  she  had  not  quitted  the 
tomb  of  St.  Mamas.  The  daughter  for  whose  restora- 
tion she  had  come  to  pray  had  now  been  a  long  while 
dead.  But  Theodula  continued  kneeling  ceaselessly 
before  her  faded  and  ravelled  fragment  of  cloth. 

From  the  outer  court  three  doors  led  into  the  basilica 
— one  for  women,  one  for  men,  and  the  third,  in  the 
centre,  for  monks  and  the  lower  clergy.  With  Kutro- 
pius  and  Gallus,  Julian  went  in  through  this  last  door, 
being  anagiiost  or  reader  of  the  lessons  for  the  day. 
Clothed  in  a  long  black  robe  with  white  sleeves,  his 
hair  anointed,  and  bound  back  by  a  fillet  that  it  might 
not  fall  into  his  eyes  while  reading  aloud,  Julian  passed 
through  the  midst  of  the  faithful,  his  eyes  fixed  humbly 
on  the  ground.  His  pale  face  assumed  almost  involun- 
tarily the  inevitable  and  hypocritical  expression  of  sub- 
missiveness.  He  ascended  the  high  rood-loft.  The 
frescoes  of  the  wall  to  the  right  depicted  the  martyrdom 
of  St.  Kuthymus,  in  which  one  executioner  seized  the 
sufferer's  head,  while  another,  wrenching  open  his 
mouth  with  pincers,  brought  the  cup  of  molten  lead  to 
his  lips.  In  another  scene  the  executioner  with  an  in- 
strument of  torture  was  flaying  the  childish  and  bleed- 
ing limbs  of  St.  Euthymus,  hanging  from  a  tree  by  his 
hands.  Beneath  these  frescoes  ran  the  inscription, 
**  With  the  blood  of  the  martyrs,  O  Lord,  Thy  church 
is  arrayed  as  in  purple  and  fine  linen." 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  33 

On  the  opposite  wall  sinners  were  burning  in  the 
fire  of  the  pit,  and  above  them  rose  Paradise  and  the 
saints.  One  of  the  saints  was  plucking  the  fruits  of 
the  tree  of  Bden  ;  another  playing  the  psaltery ;  and  a 
third,  couched  on  a  cloud,  contemplated  with  a  beatific 
smile  the  tortures  of  the  damned.  Beneath  were  writ- 
ten the  words,  **  Behold  !  there  shall  be  tears  and 
gnashing  of  teeth  !  "  The  adorers  of  St.  Mamas  en- 
tered the  church  like  a  procession  of  all  human  mala- 
dies. The  bandy-legged,  the  blind,  the  armless,  the 
anaemic,  children  tottering  along  like  old  men,  epilep- 
tics, idiots  with  pale  faces  and  inflamed  e3^elids — all  bore 
the  mark  of  a  dull  and  desperate  submission.  When 
the  choir  ceased,  there  could  be  heard  the  contrite 
sighings  of  the  *'  widows  of  the  church,"  black-robed 
nuns  of  the  order  of  St.  Basil,  and  the  jingling  of  the 
chains  of  old  Pamphilus,  who  for  many  a  long  year  had 
addressed  no  word  to  the  living,  muttering  only, 
**  Lord,  Lord,  give  me  tears  ! — grant  me  mercy  ! — give 
me  an  end  to  remembrance  ! ' ' 

The  atmosphere  was  that  of  a  warm  sepulchral  cham- 
ber, thick,  loaded  with  incense  and  the  smell  of  melting 
wax,  hot  oil,  and  the  breath  of  all  these  sick  persons. 
Now  it  was  Julian's  lot  on  that  day  to  read  aloud  part 
of  the  Apocalypse. 

The  terrifying  pictures  of  the  Revelation  were  un- 
folded, the  white  horse  of  Death  soared  through  space 
above  the  peoples  of  the  earth,  as  they  knelt  weeping 
at  the  nearness  of  the  world's  end. 

*'  The  sun  becomes  dark  as  pitch,  and  the  moon  red  as 
blood.  Me7i  say  to  the  mountams^  Fall  on  us  and  hide  us 
from  the  throne  of  God  and  from  the  wrath  of  the  Lamby 
for  the  great  day  of  His  anger  is  come,  and  who  can  resist 

itf 

3 


34  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Over  and  over  again  came  the  prophecy  :  ^^Men  shaZ 
seek  death  and  shall  not  find  it ;  they  shall  desire  death 
and  it  shall  flee  from  them. 

I^amentation  arose  :  "  Thrice  happy  are  the  dead !  " 
and  "  Then  came  the  bloody  destructio7i  of  all  peoples,  and 
the  angel  cast  his  sickle  into  the  earth  and  gathered  the 
vintage  of  the  earth  a7id  cast  it  ifito  the  great  wine-press 
of  the  wrath  of  God,  and  the  wine-press  was  trodden  with- 
out the  city  ;  and  there  came  out  blood  from  the  wi7ie-press 
even  tinto  the  bridles  of  the  horses,  as  far  as  a  thousand 
and  six  hundred  furlorigs,'"  and  men  cursed  the  God 
of  heaven  for  their  plagues,  and  they  did  not  repent 
them  of  their  sins  ;  and  the  angel  sang  :  ''  He  Who 
worships  the  Beast  and  his  image  shall  dri7ik  of  the  wine 
of  the  wrath  of  God,  prepared  in  the  aip  of  His  anger, 
and  shall  be  tormented  in  fire  and  sulphur  before  the  holy 
angels  a7id  the  Lamb,  and  the  smoke  of  his  torture  shall 
rise  in  the  night  of  ages.  For  he  who  shall  adore  the 
Beast  and  his  image  shall  rest  710  more. ' ' 

Julian  ended.  A  profound  hush  succeeded  in  the 
church.  Painful  sighs  rose  from  the  terrified  crowd  ; 
and  the  noise  of  foreheads  struck  against  the  earth  and 
the  clank  of  the  fetters  of  Pamphilus,  accompanying  his 
perpetual  murmur  :  '*  I^ord,  Lord,  give  me  tears  !  — 
grant  me  mercy  ! —  give  me  an  end  of  remembrance  !  " 

The  child  raised  his  eyes  towards  the  spandril  of 
mosaic  between  the  columns  of  the  arcade,  representing 
the  Arian  image  of  Christ ;  a  sombre,  terrible  figure, 
its  wasted  face  aureoled  in  gold,  and  diademed  in  the 
fashion  of  the  Byzantine  emperors.  It  was  the  face  of 
an  old  man,  with  a  long  thin  nose  and  lips  severely 
shut.  With  his  right  hand  he  was  blessing  the  world  ; 
in  the  left  he  held  a  book  in  which  was  written, 
**  Peace  be  with  you  ;  I  am  the  Light  of  the  World.'* 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  35 

He  was  seated  on  a  splendid  throne,  and  a  Roman  em- 
peror (Julian  imagined  that  it  must  be  Constantius) 
was  in  the  act  of  kissing  his  feet. 

In  the  penumbral  shadow  below  this  image,  lighted 
by  a  single  lamp,  could  be  discerned  a  bas-relief  on  a 
sarcophagus,  dating  from  the  earliest  Christian  times. 
It  displayed  sea-nymphs,  leopards,  gay  tritons  blowing 
their  horns,  and  among  them  Moses,  Jonah  and  his 
whale,  Orpheus  charming  the  beasts  with  his  lyre,  an 
olive-branch,  and  a  dove  ;  the  whole  sculpture  a  symbol 
of  pure  and  childlike  faith.  In  the  midst  stood  the 
Good  Shepherd  bearing  on  his  shoulder  the  sheep  that 
had  gone  astray,  the  soul  of  the  sinner.  This  bare- 
footed youthful  figure,  with  beardless  face,  had  the 
joyous  and  simple  bearing  of  a  poor  peasant,  and  his 
smile  something  of  a  heavenly  sweetness. 

Julian  imagined  that  nobody  nowadays  knew  or  saw 
that  Good  Shepherd ;  and  this  little  picture  of  old  times 
was  somehow  connected  in  his  mind  with  a  dream  of 
his  childhood  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  recover. 

And,  gazing  at  this  youth,  who  seemed  as  if  mys- 
teriously  reproaching  him,  he  murmured  the  name 
picked  up  from  Mardonius,  *'  Galilean  !  "  At  that 
moment  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  through  the  windows 
trembled,  above,  in  a  cloud  of  incense,  which,  aflame 
with  reflections  from  the  gilded  aureole,  seemed  to  up- 
heave  the  sombre  and  terrible  image  of  the  Arian 
Christ.  The  choir  chanted,  ''Let  all  humaji  flesh  be 
dumb  and  bow  down,  fearful  and  trembling,  thinking  710 
more  of  the  things  of  the  earth  ;  for  the  Emperor  of  em- 
perors, the  Lord  of  lords,  has  given  Himself  afresh  as  a 
pledge  and  a  food  to  His  faithful ;  even  He  who  is  sur- 
rounded by  the  hosts  of  angels,  by  all  powers  and  do- 
ininio7is,  by  cherubim  with  innumerable  eyes,  and  by  the 


36  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

six-winged  seraphim,  veiling  their  faces  and  singings 
'  Alleluia  !  Alleluia  !   Alleluia  /  '  " 

Ivike  a  tempest  the  psalm  swept  over  the  bowed 
heads  of  the  pilgrims.  The  figure  of  the  Good  Shep- 
herd faded  into  the  distance  ;  but  its  youthful  gaze 
remained  steadily  fixed  upon  Julian,  a  gaze  full  of 
reproach.  The  heart  of  the  child  was  moved,  not  by  a 
sense  of  worship,  but  by  an  intolerable  fear  ;  a  fear  be- 
fore that  mystery  which  was  for  him  to  remain  for  ever 
insoluble. 


FROM  the  Arian  basilica  Julian  returned  to  Macel- 
lum,  and  got  out  his  little  galley  which  he  had 
prepared  for  this  special  occasion  ;  and  learning  that 
Butropius,  after  the  Mass,  had  gone  a  journey  of 
several  days,  the  boy  slipped  through  the  barred  gates 
of  the  fortress,  and  ran  to  the  temple  of  Aphrodite, 
close  to  the  church  of  St.  Maurice.  The  sacred  wood 
of  the  goddess  bordered  the  Christian  cemetery.  End- 
less hostilities,  debates,  wranglings,  and  even  lawsuits, 
were  kept  up  between  these  two  temples.  The  Christ- 
ians begged  for  the  destruction  of  the  Pagan  shrine  ; 
Olympiodorus,  the  sacrificing  priest,  on  the  other  hand, 
complained  that  the  custodians  of  the  basilica  by  night 
would  secretly  cut  down  ancient  cypresses  in  the  sacred 
wood,  and  dig  graves  for  Christians  in  the  soil  belong- 
ing to  Aphrodite. 

Into  the  wood  Julian  wound  his  way ;  a  warm  breeze 
blew  softly  on  his  cheek.  In  the  afternoon  heat  the 
grey  and  fibrous  bark  of  the  cypresses  trickled  with 
thick  resinous  tears.  To  Julian  the  dusk  seemed  per- 
fumed by  the  very  breath  of  the  goddess. 

The  white  bodies  of  statues  stood  up  in  sharp  relief 
against  the  rich  shadow  of  trees.  An  Eros  there  had 
been  maimed  by  some  custodian  of  the  basilica,  who 
had  rudely  smashed  off  its  marble  bow.  The  weapon 
of  the  little  winged  Love-god,  together  with  his  hands, 
lay  in  deep  grass  at  the  foot  of  the  pedestal.  But  al- 
though one-armed,  the  mischievous  boy  continued  to 

37 


38  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

take  aim,  and  a  mad  smile  of  malice  still  fluttered  on 
his  lips. 

Julian  entered  the  house  of  the  priest,  Olympiodorus. 
Its  rooms  were  small  but  comfortable,  and  rather  bare 
than  luxurious.  There  was  neither  carpet  nor  silver 
dish  to  be  seen ;  the  floors  and  furniture  were  of  wood, 
and  the  vessels  of  clay.  But  everything  bore  the  stamp 
of  taste.  The  handle  of  the  kitchen  lamp  was  a  mar- 
vellous little  work  of  art  representing  Neptune  with 
his  trident ;  the  bold  outlines  of  earthen  jars,  full  of 
olive  oil,  won  the  admiration  of  Julian  ;  and  along  the 
walls  ran  light  frescoes,  water  nymphs  mounted  on  sea- 
unicorns;  and  dancing  women,  clothed  in  the  long  robe 
of  votaries  of  Pallas  Athene,  hovered  along  in  graceful 
scroll-work. 

The  little  house  stood  all  smiling  in  its  bath  of  sun- 
shine. Nereids,  dancers,  sea-unicorns,  the  Neptune 
on  the  lamp,  and  the  inmates  of  the  house,  aK  seemed 
folk  cheerful  by  nature,  guiltless  of  ugliness,  of  malice 
or  spleen.  A  couple  of  dozen  olives,  some  white  bread, 
a  bunch  of  grapes,  some  wine  and  water,  these  were 
enough  to  turn  the  little  meal  into  a  feast,  and  Dio- 
phane,  the  wife  of  Olympiodorus,  had  in  fact  tied  a 
wreath  of  laurel  to  the  door  to  mark  that  very  day  a 
feast-day. 

Julian  went  into  the  little  garden  of  the  atrium. 
Under  the  blue  sky  a  jet  of  water  pulsed  into  the  air, 
and  in  the  midst  of  narcissus,  acanthus-blossom,  tulips, 
and  myrrh,  rose  a  bronze  Hermes,  winged  and  smiling 
like  the  rest  of  the  cottage,  and  poised  in  the  act  of 
taking  flight.  Above  the  flowers,  butterflies  and  bees 
playing  in  the  sunshine  chased  each  other,  and  in  the 
shade  of  the  porch  Olympiodorus  and  his  daughter 
Amaryllis,  a  pretty  girl  of  some  seventeen  springs, 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  39 

were  playing  the  Greek  game  of  kottabos.  On  a  slender 
column  fixed  in  the  earth,  and  oscillating  like  the  scale 
of  a  balance,  lay  a  little  beam,  which  bore,  slung  from 
each  end,  a  cup  ;  under  each  cup  stood  an  amphora  full 
of  water,  crowned  by  a  statuette  in  metal.  The  game 
consisted  in  throwing  from  a  certain  distance  a  few 
drops  of  wine,  in  as  high  a  curve  as  possible,  into  one 
of  the  little  cups,  which,  thus  suddenly  weighted, 
would  descend  and  strike  the  statuette. 

'*  Play,  play  ;  it  is  your  turn!  "  cried  Amaryllis. 

"  One,  two,  three  !  "  Olympiodorus  threw  the  con- 
tents of  his  goblet,  and  missed. 

He  burst  out  into  a  boyish  laugh.  It  was  strange  to 
see  the  tall  grey-headed  man  so  wholly  absorbed  in 
his  game.  ^ 

The  young  girl,  with  a  charming  movement  of  her 
bare  arm,  threw  back  her  mauve  tunic  and  in  her  turn 
flung  the  liquid.  The  little  cup  of  the  kottabos  rang 
upon  the  statuette.  Amaryllis  began  laughing  and 
clapping  her  hands.  Suddenlj^  on  the  threshold  they 
saw  Julian,  and  both  rushed  to  welcome  him.  Ama- 
ryllis cried — 

' '  Diophane  !  where  art  thou  ?  Come  and  see  what 
guest  we  've  got  to-day.     Quick,  quick  !  " 

Diophane  ran  from  the  kitchen. 

"Julian,  my  darling  child!  .  .  .  Don't  you 
think  he  is  grown  thinner  ?  How  long  it  is  since  we 
have  seen  you  !     .     .     ." 

And  she  added,  radiant  with  good  humour — 

*'  You  may  well  be  merry,  children,  for  this  evening 
we  shall  have  a  real  feast.  I  'm  going  to  prepare 
crowns  of  fresh  roses  ;  I  shall  fry  three  perch,  and 
make  you  cakes  of  gingerbread  !  " 

At  this  moment  a  young  slave  accosted  Olympiodorus 


40  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

and  whispered  in  his  ear  that  a  rich  patrician  lady  of 
Csesarea  wished  to  see  him,  having  something  to  dis= 
cuss  with  the  priest  of  Aphrodite. 

Olympiodorus  followed  the  slave.  Julian  and  Ama- 
ryllis went  on  with  the  game  of  kottabos.  Presently  a 
little  twelve-year-old  girl  came  shyly  up  to  them.  It 
was  Psyche,  the  pale  fair-haired  and  youngest  child 
of  Olympiodorus.  She  had  great  sad  blue  eyes,  and, 
alone  in  the  house,  seemed  a  stranger  to  the  cult  of 
Aphrodite,  and  apart  from  the  general  gaiety.  Keep- 
ing aloof  from  the  rest,  she  would  remain  musing  while 
others  were  laughing,  and  nobody  knew  what  made 
her  sad,  or  what  gave  her  pleasure.  Her  father 
pitied  her  as  one  incurably  sick,  ruined  by  the  evil 
eye  or  by  the  witchcrafts  of  his  eternal  enemies  the 
Galileans,  who  had  carried  ofif  the  soul  of  his  child  in 
revenge. 

The  dark  Amaryllis  was  the  favourite  daughter  of 
Olympiodorus:  but  the  mother  secretly  spoiled  Psyche, 
and  loved  with  jealous  passion  the  delicate  child  whose 
inner  life  was  hidden  from  her.  Psyche,  unknown  to 
her  father,  and  in  despite  of  the  caresses,  prayers,  and 
even  the  threats  of  her  mother,  used  to  attend  the 
basilican  church  of  St.  Maurice.  Anguished  on  dis- 
covering this,  the  priest  of  Venus  had  renounced 
Psyche  ;  and  when  her  name  was  mentioned,  his  brow 
would  cloud  over  with  a  bitter  expression.  He  was 
sure  that  it  was  by  reason  of  the  impiety  of  his  child 
that  the  vine,  once  blessed  by  Aphrodite,  produced 
fewer  fruits  than  of  yore  ;  he  believed  that  the  little 
golden  crucifix  worn  on  the  child's  neck  had  profaned 
the  temple  of  the  indignant  goddess. 

"  Why  do  you  go  to  that  church  ?  "  Julian  asked  her 
one  day. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  41 

**  I  don't  know  ;  it  is  comfortable  there.  Have  you 
seen  the  Good  Shepherd  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  the  Galilean  !  How  did  you  know  about 
Him?  " 

**  Old  Theodula  told  me.  Ever  since  then  I  have 
gone  to  church  ;  and,  tell  me,  Julian,  why  do  they  all 
hate  the  Good  Shepherd  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Olympiodorus  returned  in  triumph 
and  narrated  his  interview  with  the  patrician  lady,  a 
young  girl  whom  her  betrothed  had  abandoned.  She 
believed  him  bewitched  by  the  amulets  of  a  rival. 
Many  a  time  had  she  gone  to  the  Christian  church  and 
besought  St.  Mamas  with  an  aching  heart,  but  neither 
fasts  nor  prostrations  had  snapped  the  evil  charm. 

"  As  if  the  Christians  could  console  her!  "  Olympio- 
dorus contemptuously  concluded,  throwing  a  keen 
glance  at  the  attentive  Psyche.  **  This  Christian  girl 
has  now  sought  my  help,  and  Aphrodite  will  heal 
her!" 

He  produced  the  two  white  pigeons,  bound  together, 
which  the  Christian  had  begged  him  to  offer  as  a  sacri- 
fice to  the  goddess  of  love.  AmarylHs  took  the  little 
creatures  in  her  hand,  and  kissed  their  rosy  beaks,  de- 
claring that  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  to  kill  them. 

•*  Father,  we  will  offer  them  to  the  goddess  without 
spilling  a  drop  of  blood !  " 

**  How?  There  can  be  no  sacrifice  without  blood- 
shed." 

*'  We  will  give  them  liberty.  They  shall  fly  away 
clean  into  heaven,  straight  to  the  footstool  of  Aphro- 
dite. Is  she  not  in  the  sky  ?  She  will  accept  them. 
I^et  me  do  this,  darling  father,  I  beg  of  you  !  " 

Olympiodorus  had  not  the  heart  to  deny  this  en- 
treaty; and  the  young  girl,  unbinding  the  pigeons. 


42  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

tossed  them  back  to  liberty.  They  fled  away  into  the 
sky  with  a  delirious  beating  of  white  wings,  making  for 
the  footstool  of  Aphrodite.  Shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hands  the  priest  watched  the  offering  of  the  convert 
disappear  into  the  clouds,  while  Amaryllis  danced  with 
joy,  crying— 

* '  Aphrodite,  Aphrodite,  receive  the  gift ! ' ' 

Olympiodorus  went  out.  Julian,  solemn-faced  and 
timorous,  approached  Amaryllis;  his  cheeks  grew  red, 
and  his  voice  trembled  as  he  pronounced  the  name  of 
the  young  girl. 

'*  Amaryllis,  I  have  brought  you " 

**  Ah!  I  have  long  been  going  to  ask  you  what  it 
could  be." 

*'  It  is  a  galley  with  three  banks  of  oars  !  '* 

'*  A  galley  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

'*  A  real  Liburnian  galley." 

He  immediately  began  to  unroll  his  present,  but  sud- 
denly aware  that  Amaryllis  was  watching  him,  he  felt 
ineffable  shame,  became  confused,  and  with  an  implor- 
ing look  at  the  damsel,  slid  the  ship  into  the  basin  of 
the  fountain. 

*  *  You  see,  Amaryllis  .  .  .  it  is  a  trireme  .  .  , 
a  real  trireme,  with — with — sails  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
its  rudder.    .    .    .    lyook  how  well  it  gets  under  way ! ' ' 

But  Amaryllis  laughed  heartily. 

"  What  an  odd  boy  you  are!  What  in  the  world 
should  I  do  with  your  trireme  ?  I  fear  it  would  n't 
take  me  very  far.  It  's  a  ship  for  mice  and  flies. 
Make  a  present  of  it  to  Psyche  ;  she  will  be  delighted 
with  it." 

Julian,  though  deeply  hurt,  assumed  indifference, 
while  tears  choked  his  speech.  Controlling  himself, 
he  said  disdainfully,  but  with  trembling  lips — 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  43 

"  I  see  that  you  don't  understand  anything  .  .  . 
about  art." 

Amaryllis  laughed  yet  more  heartily.  To  add  insult 
to  injury,  a  summons  came  for  her  to  receive  her  be- 
trothed, a  rich  merchant  from  Samos,  who  dressed 
badly,  perfumed  his  person,  and  spoke  vile  grammar. 
Julian  hated  him,  and  when  he  learnt  of  the  arrival  of 
the  Samian,  the  charm  of  the  house  vanished  so  far  as 
he  was  concerned. 

From  the  neighbouring  room  he  could  hear  the  dis- 
tracting chatter  of  Amaryllis  and  the  voice  of  her  lover. 

Without  uttering  a  word,  and  filled  with  cold  hatred, 
Julian  seized  his  cherished  trireme — the  real  Liburnian 
trireme  which  had  cost  him  such  endless  pains — and 
before  the  startled  eyes  of  Psyche,  snapped  the  mast, 
tore  down  the  sails,  tangled  the  rigging,  and  stamped 
the  toy  into  atoms  with  his  feet. 

Amaryllis  returned.  Her  face  bore  traces  of  a 
strange  happiness,  of  that  superfluity  of  life  and  love- 
joy  which  awakens  in  young  girls  an  imperious  need 
to  embrace  and  to  kiss  those  near  them. 

' '  Julian  .  .  .  forgive  me  ...  I  have  pained 
you.  Forgive  me,  dear  !  you  know  well  that  I  love 
you." 

And  before  he  had  time  to  make  up  his  mind,  Ama- 
ryllis, throwing  back  her  tunic,  imprisoned  his  head  in 
her  fresh  bare  arms.  A  delightful  dread  stopped  the 
beating  of  Julian's  heart  ;  he  saw  her  great  dark  dewy 
eyes  so  close  to  him,  the  sweet  odour  of  her  body  so 
overwhelmed  him,  and  she  locked  him  so  close  against 
her  breast,  that  the  boy  grew  giddy.  He  closed  his 
eyes  and  felt  a  kiss  long,  too  long,  pressed  upon  his  lips. 

The  voice  of  the  Samian  broke  the  enchantment — 

**  Amaryllis,  Amaryllis  !  where  art  thou  ?  " 


44  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Julian  putting  forth  all  his  strength  pushed  the  girl 
away,  his  heart  overflowed  with  pain  and  hatred,  and 
crying,  "  I^et  me  go,  let  me  go!  "  snatched  himself  free 
and  fled. 

Deaf  and  heedless  he  escaped  from  the  house  through 
the  vineyards  and  the  cypress  wood;  nor  halted  till  he 
reached  the  temple  of  Aphrodite.  Now  and  again  he 
heard  his  name  called,  and  the  gay  voice  of  Diophane, 
announcing  that  the  cakes  of  gingerbread  were  ready  ; 
but  he  made  no  reply.  Search  was  made  for  him.  He 
lay  in  hiding  in  the  thicket  of  laurels  at  the  feet  of 
Bros.  Accustomed  to  his  fits  of  moroseness,  they 
g^ave  up  the  search,  satisfied  that  he  had  returned  to 
Macellum. 

When  all  around  was  restored  again  to  silence,  Julian 
came  out  from  his  hiding-place  and  gazed  at  the 
temple  of  the  goddess  of  love,  lodged  upon  a  gentle 
hill,  and  bare  to  view  on  all  sides.  The  Ionic  marble 
columns,  flooded  with  sunshine,  were  softly  steeped  in 
the  warmth  of  azure,  receiving  its  ardent  embraces 
with  the  cold  purity  of  snow. 

Each  corner  of  the  facade  was  surmounted  by  pedes- 
talled  grifl&ns,  with  lifted  talons,  beaks  gaping,  and 
woman -shaped  breasts,  standing  out,  proud  and  austere, 
against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky. 

Julian  went  up  the  steps  into  the  portico,  pushed 
open  the  bronze  doors  and  penetrated  the  interior  of  the 
temple  up  to  the  very  shrine,  the  naos. 

Silence  and  coolness  surrounded  him.  The  setting 
sun  overhead  still  fell  on  the  capitals  of  the  columns, 
and  their  fine  illumined  scroll-work,  contrasted  with 
the  penumbral  shadow  on  the  floor  of  the  temple, 
seemed  soft  and  bright  as  tresses  of  gold.  A  tripod- 
still  burning,  diffused  the  odour  of  myrrh. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  45 

Julian,  leaning  against  the  wall,  lifted  his  eyes  in 
fear,  restraining  his  breath  till  it  almost  died  upon  his 
lips. 

She,  the  goddess  herself,  was  before  him.  Under 
the  open  sky,  in  the  midst  of  the  temple,  stood,  cold 
and  white,  new-born  of  the  sea-foam.  Aphrodite  Ana- 
dyomene.  With  a  smile  she  contemplated  the  heavens 
and  the  sea,  wondering  at  their  charm;  as  if  unwitting 
still  that  their  beauty  was  her  own  beauty,  glassed  in 
the  eternal  mirrors  of  the  azure  and  the  waters.  No 
raiment  profaned  her  divine  body.  Naked  and  chaste 
she  rose,  as  the  clear  sky  soaring  above  her. 

Julian  gazed  on  with  an  insatiate  gaze,  and  felt  quick 
thrills  of  adoration  sweep  over  his  frame.  The  child, 
in  his  black  monkish  habit,  knelt  before  Aphrodite,  his 
face  upturned,  his  hands  pressed  to  his  palpitating 
little  heart. 

Then  still  aloof,  still  timorous,  he  sat  at  the  foot  of 
the  column.  He  leant  his  cheek  against  the  marble. 
Peace  sank  slowly  into  his  soul.     He  fell  asleep. 

But,  even  through  that  slumber,  he  was  conscious 
of  her  presence. 

She  came  down  towards  him,  nearer,  nearer.  .  .  . 
Her  delicate  white  hands  stole  round  his  neck.  The 
boy  with  a  smile  submitted  to  these  passionless  endear- 
ments ;  the  cold  of  the  marble  chilled  his  very  heart. 
That  divine  embrace  bore  no  likeness  to  the  wild  clasp 
of  Amaryllis.  The  soul  of  Julian,  freeing  itself  from 
earthly  love,  entered  depths  of  repose,  as  into  some 
ambrosial  night  of  Homer,  or  the  sweet  rest  of  the 
dead. 

When  Julian  awoke  it  was  night.  Over  the  roofless 
quadrilateral  stars  were  shining,  and  the  crescent  moon 


46  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

shedding  her  silver  upon  the  head  of  the  statue. 
Julian  arose.  Olympiodorus  must  have  meanwhile 
been  tending  the  temple,  although  he  had  either  not 
observed  or  had  refrained  from  waking  the  child  ;  for 
now,  on  the  bronze  tripod,  fresh  charcoal  was  glowing, 
and  a  fillet  of  odorous  smoke  arising  towards  the  god- 
dess. 

Julian  smiling  approached,  and  from  the  chrysolite 
cup,  between  the  feet  of  the  tripod,  took  a  few  grains 
of  incense  and  flung  them  on  the  coals.  Smoke  rose 
more  thickly,  and  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  fire,  like  a  pale 
flush  of  life,  came  over  the  face  of  the  statue,  contend- 
ing with  the  soft  new-born  shine  of  the  moon. 

Julian  bowed  down  and  kissed  the  marble  feet,  and 
watered  them  with  his  tears,  exclaiming — 

"Aphrodite!  Aphrodite  !  thou  shalt  be  my  everlast 
ing  love  !  " 


VI 


IN  one  of  the  foul  and  dirty  quarters  of  the  Syrian 
Seleucia,  the  port  for  Antioch  on  the  shores  of  the 
Inner  Sea,  narrow  and  tortuous  alleys  debouched  into  a 
market-place  lying  along  the  quays.  •  The  sea-horizon 
was  invisible,  so  thick  was  the  throng  of  masts  and  the 
tangle  of  rigging.  The  houses  were  a  mass  of  miser- 
able little  shells,  whitewashed  within  and  encumbered 
with  furniture.  Their  fronts  were  garnished  with 
tattered  carpets,  dirty  fragments  of  cloth,  and  ravelled 
matting.  In  every  nook  and  hovel  and  crowded  court, 
along  kennels  and  gutters  of  dirty  fever-stricken  water 
from  laundries  and  baths  of  the  poor,  there  lay  seething 
in  its  penury  and  hunger  a  populace  strangely  cosmo- 
politan. 

The  sun,  after  thoroughly  baking  the  earth,  had  just 
descended  below  the  horizon ;  wide- winged  twilight  was 
settling  slowly  down  ;  a  stifling  heat  of  dust  and  fog 
still  weighed  on  the  spirits  of  the  city.  From  the  market 
square  breathed  a  suffocating  atmosphere  of  flesh  and 
vegetables,  becoming  rotten  through  lying  all  day  in 
the  blaze  of  the  sun.  Half-naked  slaves  were  carrying 
bales  of  merchandise  from  the  ships.  Their  heads 
were  close-shaven ;  through  their  rags  could  be  seen  hor- 
rible blotches  on  the  skin ;  and  the  greater  number  bore 
on  their  faces,  in  brandings  by  red-hot  iron,  the  Latin 
letters  C.  F.,  that  is  to  say  Cave  Furem  ('ware  thief!). 

Braziers  were  being  slowly  lighted.  But  notwith- 
standing the  approach  of  night,  traffic  and  discussion 

47 


48  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

gave  no  sign  of  ceasing  in  the  network  of  alleys. 
From  a  neighbouring  forge  piercing  blows  of  the  ham- 
mer resounded  on  bars  of  iron,  and  flames  shot  up  the 
sooty  draught-hole.  Hard  by,  slaves  of  a  bakery, 
naked,  covered  from  head  to  foot  in  flour-dust,  and 
with  eyelids  inflamed  by  heat,  were  putting  loaves  into 
an  oven.  A  shoemaker  sat  in  his  open-air  stall,  amid 
an  insupportable  smell  of  cobbler's  glue  and  leather, 
stitching  shoes  by  the  light  of  a  smoky  lamp.  He 
was  squatting  on  his  heels,  and  chanting  desert  songs 
at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Two  old  hags  like  witches, 
with  hair  streaming  in  the  wind,  were  slowly  passing 
across  the  little  square  in  front  of  a  row  of  hovels. 
They  were  yelling  at  each  other,  wrangling  and 
threatening  each  other  with  fists  and  stones.  The 
subject  of  dispute  was  the  ownership  of  a  cord  on 
which  to  dry  linen.  A  huckster;  from  a  distant  vil- 
lage, was  hurrying  along  to  be  in  time  for  the  morning 
market.  He  was  mounted  on  an  old  mare,  flanked 
with  wicker  paniers,  each  heaped  with  rotting  fish  ; 
the  fetid  smell  of  his  load  made  passers-by  edge  off  to 
a  distance.  A  loutish  urchin,  with  red  hair  and  skin, 
was  solacing  his  soul  by  beating  on  a  great  pan,  while 
other  children,  a  sickly  multitude  coming  into  the 
world  and  leaving  it  by  hundreds  daily,  marched 
amidst  this  scene  of  poverty,  grunting  like  pigs,  round 
the  pools  of  the  quay.  The  water  was  full  of  orange- 
peel  and  egg-shells.  In  yet  more  villainous  passages, 
inhabited  by  thieves,  the  smell  of  sour  wine  came  from 
wine-shops,  and  sailors  from  every  beach  of  the  world 
marched  along  arm  in  arm,  shouting  drunken  songs. 

Surrounding  all  that  noise,  that  filth  and  spilth  of 
human  misery,  there  murmured,  sighed,  and  grumbled, 
the  infinite,  distant,  and  invisible  sea. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  49 

Directly  over  against  the  subterranean  kitchen  win- 
dows of  a  Phoenician  dealer,  ragged  gamblers  were 
playing  at  knuckle- bones,  and  gossiping.  From  the 
kitchen  warm  gusts  of  boiling  gravy,  game,  and  spices 
ascended,  greedily  snuffed-up,  with  closed  eyes,  by  the 
hungry  gamesters. 

A  certain  Christian,  a  dyer  of  purple,  dismissed  for 
theft  from  a  rich  factory  at  Tyre,  was  murmuring,  as 
he  hungrily  sucked  a  mallow-leaf  thrown  away  by  the 
cook, — 

*'  And  at  Antioch,  my  friends,  what  's  going  on 
there  makes  one  shiver  at  nights,  just  to  think  of 
it.  Why,  a  few  days  ago  the  hungry  folk  tore  in  pieces 
the  Prefect  Theophilus  —  and  for  what  reason  ?  No- 
body knows  I  When  the  thing  was  done  they  remem- 
bered too  late  that  the  poor  wretch  was  a  good  sort 
of  fellow  and  a  respectable  man.  I  suggested  that  per- 
haps the  Emperor  had  pointed  him  out  for  punishment." 

A  consumptive  old  man,  a  very  skilful  cardsharper, 
replied — 

**  I  have  seen  the  Caesar,  and  I  like  him.  Quite 
young,  fair  as  flax,  with  a  good-natured,  fat  face. 
But,  as  you  say,  what  crimes  are  committed  nowadays ! 
what  crimes  indeed  !  Why  one  can't  put  one's  nose 
outside  the  door  without  danger." 

''  Ah,  that  's  nothing  to  do  with  Cf^esar  !  it  's  his 
wife,  Constantia,  the  old  witch,  that  does  it  !  " 

But  strange  personages  came  near  the  knot  of  talkers 
and  thrust  themselves  forward,  as  if  desiring  to  take 
part  in  the  conversation. 

If  the  kitchen  firelight  had  been  brighter,  it  would 
have  been  noticed  that  their  faces  were  begrimed  and 
their  clothes  fouled  and  torn  like  those  of  stage- 
beggars  ;   and  notwithstanding  their  raggedness  the 


50  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

hands  of  these  persons  were  fine  and  white,  and  their 
nails  pared  and  crimsoned.  One  of  them  whispered  in 
his  comrade's  ear — 

"  Listen,  Agamemnon  ;  here  also  they  're  talking 
about  Caesar." 

He  whom  they  called  Agamemnon  appeared  to  be 
drunk.  He  wore  a  beard,  which  was  too  thick  and 
long  to  be  natural,  and  gave  him  the  aspect  of  a  fantas- 
tic brigand.  His  eyes  were  debonair,  almost  boyish, 
and  of  a  bright  blue.  His  friends  frequently  pulled 
him  back,  muttering — 

**  Now  then  be  careful  !  " 

The  consumptive  old  man  went  on  in  a  whining 
tone — 

*'  Now  tell  me  plainly,  my  friends,  is  it  just  ?  The 
price  of  bread  is  going  up  every  day.  People  dying 
like  flies.  And,  suddenly,  guess  what  happens  ?  Lately 
a  great  ship  came  from  Egypt  ;  everybody  's  happy, 
thinking  that  it  brings  bread.  The  word  goes  round 
that  Caesar  has  made  the  ship  come  to  feed  the  people. 
And  what  do  you  think  it  was,  my  friends  ?  Powder, 
Alexandrian  powder,  if  you  please  !  a  special  pink 
Libyan  powder  to  rub  down  the  wrestlers ! — powder  for 
the  Emperor's  gladiators  —  powder  instead  of  bread  ! 
.  .  .     Kh  ?  .  .  .     Now  is  that  justice?  " 

Agamemnon  nudged  his  companion's  elbow. 

* '  Ask  his  name,  quick — ask  ! ' ' 

**  Gently,  wait  a  bit.  ..." 

A  leather  dresser  remarked — 

*'  Here  in  Seleucia  the  town  is  quiet,  but  up  at 
Antioch  there  are  nothing  but  traitors,  spies,  and  in- 
formers." 

The  dyer,  licking  the  mallow-leaf  for  the  last  time, 
growled  and  mumbled — 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  51 

**  Yes,  unless  God  comes  down  to  help  us,  soon  flesh 
and  blood  will  be  going  a  deal  cheaper  than  bread  and 
wine  !  " 

The  currier,  a  philosophic  tippler,  sighed — 

"  Ah!  ah!  ah!  we  're  all  poor  creatures  !  The  gods 
of  Olympus  play  at  ball  with  us  !  Men  weep  and  the 
gods  laugh  ! ' ' 

The  companion  of  Agamemnon  meanwhile  had  suc- 
ceeded in  joining  the  conversation,  and  with  nonchalant 
adroitness  acertained  the  names  of  the  talkers  He  had 
intercepted  the  news,  conveyed  by  the  cobbler  to  the 
leather-dresser,  about  a  plot  hatched  against  Caesar's 
life  by  the  soldiers  of  the  Pretorian  guard.  Then, 
strolling  on  a  few  paces,  he  had  written  down  the  names 
of  the  talkers  with  a  jewelled  stilus  on  tablets  of  soft 
wax,  where  many  other  names  were  inscribed  already. 
At  this  moment  hoarse  sounds  like  the  roarings  of  some 
subterranean  monster  came  from  the  market  square. 
They  were  the  notes,  now  plaintive,  now  lively,  of  a 
hydraulic  organ. 

At  the  entrance  to  a  showman's  travelling  booth,  a 
blind  slave,  for  four  obols  a  day,  was  pumping  up  the 
water  which  produced  this  extraordinary  harmony. 

Agamemnon  dragged  his  companion  towards  the 
booth,  a  great  tent  with  blue  awnings  sprinkled  with 
silver  tinsel.  A  lantern  lighted  the  black-board  on 
which  the  order  of  the  programme  was  chalked  up,  in 
Syriac  and  Greek.  An  oppressive  atmosphere  of  garlic 
and  lamp-oil  prevailed  inside,  where,  beside  the  organ, 
there  struck  up  the  wailing  of  two  harsh  flutes,  while 
a  negro,  rolling  the  whites  of  his  eyes,  thrummed  on 
an  Arab  drum.  A  dancer  was  skipping  to  and  fro  on  a 
tight-rope,  keeping  time  to  the  music  with  his  hands, 
and  singing  the  latest  street  song  : 


52  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Hue,  hue,  convenite  nunc    .    ,    • 
Spatoloeinaedi ! 
Pedem  tendite 
Cursum  addite    .    .    , 

This  starveling  mountebank  was  old,  impudent,  and 
repulsively  cheery.  Drops  of  sweat,  mixed  with  paint, 
were  trickling  from  his  shaven  face.  His  wrinkles, 
plastered  with  white  lead,  looked  like  the  cracks  in  a 
wall  when  rain  has  washed  off  the  lime.  When  he 
withdrew,  the  flutes  and  the  organ  ceased,  and  on  the 
platform  a  fifteen-year-old  girl  appeared.  She  was  to 
perform  the  Co7'dax,  a  celebrated  licentious  dance 
adored  by  the  mob.  Fathers  of  the  Church  might 
anathematise,  and  Roman  laws  interdict  this  dance, 
but  both  did  so  in  vain.  Everywhere  the  Cordax  was 
danced  as  before  by  rich  and  poor,  by  street-dancers  as 
well  as  by  wives  of  senators. 

Agamemnon  murmured  with  enthusiasm  : 

"  What  a  divinely  pretty  girl!  " 

Thanks  to  jostling  by  his  companions  he  had  reached 
a  place  in  the  front  rank  of  spectators.  The  slender 
bronze  body  of  the  Nubian  was  only  veiled  round  the 
hips  by  a  light  and  transparent  rose-coloured  scarf. 
Her  hair  was  wound  on  the  top  of  her  head  in  close 
fine  curls,  like  those  of  Ethiopian  women.  Her  face 
was  of  the  severest  Egyptian  type,  recalling  that  of  the 
Sphinx. 

She  began  to  dance  in  careless  fashion,  as  if  already 
out-wearied.  Above  her  head  she  swung  heavy  steel 
bells,  castanets  or  "  crotals," — swung  them  lazily  and 
loosely.  But  the  movements  became  more  emphatic, 
and  suddenly  under  long  lashes  yellow  eyes  shone  out, 
clear  and  bright  as  the  eyes  of  a  leopardess.  She 
straightened  her  body.     The  steel  crotals  shook  with 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  53 

such  a  challenge  in  their  piercing  sound  that  the  crowd 
shivered  and  became  still.  The  damsel  whirled  rapidly, 
vivid,  slender,  supple  as  a  serpent;  her  nostrils  dilated, 
a  strange  cry  came  crooning  from  her  throat,  and  at 
each  sharp  movement  her  brown  bosom  shook  and 
trembled  within  its  almost  invisible  meshes  of  fine 
green  silk. 

The  crowd  howled  with  enthusiasm.  Agamemnon 
struggled  with  rage  because  his  companions  held  him 
back.  Suddenly  the  girl  stopped.  A  slight  shudder 
ran  through  her  body.  Deep  silence  prevailed.  The 
head  of  the  Nubian  was  thrown  back  as  if  in  a  rigid 
swoon,  but  above  it  the  crotals  still  shivered  with  an 
extraordinary  languor,  a  dying  vibration,  quick  and 
tender  as  the  wing-flutterings  of  a  captive  butterfly. . 
The  flashing  of  the  yellow  eyes  died  away,  although 
the  eyeball  kept  its  sparkling  lights,  and  the  face  re- 
mained severe  ;  but  upon  the  dark  and  sensuous  lips 
of  that  sphinx-like  mouth  a  smile  trembled,  faint  as  the 
dying  sound  of  the  crotals. 

The  public  shouted  and  applauded  so  loudly  that  the 
blue  tent  with  its  stars  and  spangles  swayed  like  a  sail 
in  a  hurricane.  The  showman  became  apprehensive 
lest  his  booth  should  collapse.  The  companions  of 
Agamemnon  at  last  failed  to  hold  him  back  ;  raising 
the  curtain,  he  rushed  through  the  scenes  into  the  part 
reserved  for  the  dancers  and  actors.  In  vain  his 
friends  counselled — 

''  Wait ;  to-morrow  you  shall  have  everything  as  you 
wish  !  now  something  might  ..." 

Agamemnon  interrupted  them — 

*'  Not  to-morrow  ;  now,  at  once  !  " 

He  approached  the  owner  of  the  show,  the  cun- 
ning and  grey-bearded  Greek,   Mirmes,  and  without 


54  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

explanation  flung  into  the  skirt  of  his  robe  a  handful 
of  gold  pieces. 

"  Is  that  dancing-girl  your  slave  ?  " 

**  Yes.     What  does  your  excellency  desire  ?  '* 

Mirmes,  evidently  astonished,  was  staring  now  at 
Agamemnon  and  now  at  the  gold. 

"  What  's  your  name,  girl  ?  " 

*' Phyllis." 

He  bestowed  money  on  her  also,  without  stopping  to 
reckon  it. 

The  Greek  murmured  some  words  in  the  ear  of  the 
smiling  Phyllis,  who  tossed  up  the  pieces  and  threw 
sparkling  glances  at  Agamemnon.     He  said — 

'' Come  with  me  !  " 

Phyllis  threw  over  her  shoulders  a  dark  cloak 
and  glided  with  him  into  the  street,  asking  submis- 
sively— 

'*  Whither?" 

*'  I  don't  know." 

**  To  your  house?" 

*  *  Impossible.     I  live  at  Antioch. ' ' 

**  And  as  for  me,  I  only  arrived  in  this  city  this 
morning.     What,  then,  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  moment  ;  I  saw  just  now  in  a  lane  near 
this  the  temple  of  Priapus  open.     Let  us  go  there!  " 

Phyllis  led  him  on  hastilj^  laughing.  The  com- 
panions of  Agamemnon  desired  to  follow  him,  but  he 
said  to  them — 

"  It  is  unnecessary — remain  here." 

*  *  Be  careful !  At  any  rate  take  a  weapon,  the  quar- 
ter is  dangerous  ..."  and  drawing  from  under  his 
dress  a  dagger  with  a  jewelled  hilt,  one  of  the  friends 
of  Agamemnon  respectfully  tendered  it  to  him. 

Groping  at  every  step  into  thick  darkness,  Agamem. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  55 

non  and  Phyllis  made  their  way  up  a  narrow  passage 
out  of  the  market-place. 

"  Here  !  here  it  is  !     Fear  nothing — go  in  !  " 

They  found  themselves  in  the  vestibule  of  a  little 
vacant  temple,  its  ancient  and  massive  columns  ill- 
lighted  by  the  flicker  of  a  lamp. 

*'  Push- to  the  door  !  "  and  Phyllis,  softly  laughing, 
threw  her  warm  cloak  upon  the  ground.  When  Aga- 
memnon took  her  into  his  arms,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
round  his  body  had  coiled  some  warm  lithe  snake, 
with  wide  and  terrifying  eyes.  At  that  moment  from 
the  interior  of  the  temple  came  harsh  cacklings,  and 
such  a  gust  of  beating  wings  went  past  that  the  lamp 
nearly  went  out.  Agamemnon  disengaged  his  arms 
from  Phyllis'  waist  and  stammered — 

*'  What  in  the  world  was  that  ?  " 

In  the  dense  darkness  white  forms  were  slipping  by 
them  like  so  many  ghosts.  Thoroughly  frightened, 
Agamemnon  crossed  himself. 

"  What  is  it  ?     May  the  Holy  Cross  protect  us  !  " 

Something  stoutly  nipped  his  leg.  He  yelled  with 
pain  and  fear,  but  seizing  one  of  his  unknown  enemies 
by  the  throat,  he  poignarded  another.  Deafening  cries 
arose,  followed  by  squeals  and  repeated  battlings  of 
wings.  The  lamp  flickered  for  the  last  time,  and 
Phyllis  cried,  laughing — 

* '  They  are  the  ganders  !  the  holy  ganders  of  Pria- 
pus  !     What  a  crime  you  have  committed  !  " 

Pale  and  trembling,  the  conqueror  stood  holding  in 
one  hand  the  bloody  dagger  and  in  the  other  two  slain 
ganders.  A  crowd  carrying  torches  burst  with  shouts 
into  the  temple,  led  by  Scabra,  the  old  priestess  of 
Priapus.  This  dame  had  been  peacefully  supping  in  a 
neighbouring    tavern    when    the    trumpeting  of  the 


5^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

ganders  had  raised  the  alarm.  Gathering  a  train  of 
nocturnal  prowlers  she  had  rushed  to  the  rescue. 
Hook-nosed,  with  unkempt  grey  hair,  and  eyes  blazing 
like  two  steel  points,  the  old  priestess  looked  nothing 
less  than  a  fury.     She  shouted — 

"  Help  !  help  !  The  temples  are  desecrated,  and 
the  holy  ganders  of  Priapus  slain !  And  see  here,  here 
are  the  foul  Christians  !  " 

Phyllis  fled,  enveloping  her  face  in  the  cloak,  while 
the  crowd  dragged  off  Agamemnon,  so  cleanly  taken 
aback  that  he  never  thought  of  relaxing  his  grip  upon 
the  ganders. 

Scabra  sent  for  the  clerks  of  the  market,  the  agora- 
nomes.  But  with  every  moment  the  crowd  grew  larger, 
and  Agamemnon's  companions  ran  to  support  him.  It 
was  too  late.  From  dens,  wine-shops,  alley  stalls,  a 
world  of  loiterers  rushed  up,  attracted  by  the  noise. 
All  faces  wore  the  expression  of  gleeful  curiosity  pecul- 
iar to  idlers.  The  blacksmith  appeared  with  hammer 
over  his  shoulder  ;  the  two  old  women  had  forgotten 
their  quarrel ;  the  floury  baker  jostled  the  lame  cobbler, 
and  behind  them  came  the  genial  red-headed  boy, 
shouting,  and  beating  on  his  pan,  as  if  calling  to 
arms. 

Meantime  Scabra  continued  screaming,  her  nails 
fixed  in  the  clothes  of  Agamemnon — 

**  Ah,  just  wait  !  wait  a  minute  !  let  me  get  at  that 
cursed  beard  of  yours  !  I  wont  leave  a  hair  in  it  ! 
Out,  carrion  !  food  for  crows  !  And  you  are  n't  worth 
the  rope  you  will  cost,  thief  ! ' ' 

Finally  the  sleepy  guardians  of  the  market  appeared; 
persons  of  curious  demeanour,  themselves  liker  com- 
mon rogues  than  keepers  of  the  peace. 

Such  a  deafening  din  of  laughs,  oaths,  and  screams 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  57 

now  ensued  that  nobody  was  audible.  One  shouted, 
**  He  's  an  assassin  !  "  another,  ''  A  thief !  "  a  third, 
"  Let  's  burn  him  !  " 

Suddenly  above  the  hubbub  rang  out  the  masterful 
voice  of  a  tawny  half-naked  giant,  the  attendant  in  a 
public  bath,  an  individual  with  a  demagogue's  gift  for 
oratory : 

*'  Citizens,  listen  to  me,  and  mark  what  I  say !  I  've 
long  been  watching  this  rascal  and  his  companions  ! 
They  are  writing  down  our  names!  They  are  Caesar's 
spies  !  " 

Scabra,  at  last  putting  her  threat  into  execution, 
seized  Agamemnon's  beard  in  one  hand  and  his  tresses 
in  the  other.  He  strove  to  repulse  her,  but  she  pulled 
with  might  and  main,  and  to  the  general  surprise  black 
hair  and  beard  both  remained  in  the  hands  of  the  old 
woman,  who  stumbled  and  fell.  Instead  of  Agamem- 
non, an  athletic  j^oung  man  with  fair  curling  hair  and 
short  beard  stood  before  the  people. 

In  its  astonishment,  the  crowd  was  momentarily 
silenced  ;  but  the  voice  of  the  bath-slave  was  soon 
heard  clamouring  anew  : 

''  See,  citizens,  they  are  disguised  informers  !  ** 

Somebody  cried  out — 

'*  Strike  him  !     Knock  him  down  !  " 

The  crowd  became  tumultuous.  Stones  were  thrown ; 
the  sham  beggars  of  Agamemnon's  company  encircled 
him  with  drawn  swords.  At  the  first  stroke  the  luck- 
less leather-dresser  was  killed,  and  fell  in  a  pool  of 
blood.  The  red-headed  boy  was  trampled  under  foot, 
and  all  faces  were  becoming  ferocious,  when  at  this 
juncture  ten  enormous  Paphlagonian  slaves  bearing 
on  their  shoulders  a  purple  litter  impatiently  thrust 
their  way  through  the  crowd. 


58  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

*  *  Saved  ! ' '  cried  the  fair-haired  young  man,  and 
vaulted  into  the  litter  with  one  of  his  fellows. 

The  Paphlagonians  hoisted  the  pair  on  their 
shoulders  and  set  off  at  sharp  run.  The  infuriated 
crowd  were  making  as  if  to  dash  in  pursuit,  with  in- 
tent to  stone  them,  when  somebody  called  out — 

' '  Citizens,  don' t  you  see  that  it  is  Csesar  himself — 
Gallus  Caesar  !  " 

The  mob  halted,  paralysed  by  fear,  and  the  purple 
litter,  swaying  on  the  shoulders  of  the  slaves  like  a 
skiff  in  a  heavy  sea,  vanished  into  the  darkness  up  the 
street. 

Six  years  had  elapsed  since  the  incarceration  of 
Julian  and  of  Gallus  in  the  Cappadocian  fortress  of 
Macellum.  Constantius  had  restored  them  to  favour. 
Julian,  then  twenty  years  old,  was  sent  to  Constanti- 
nople, and  given  leave  to  travel  in  Asia  Minor.  Gal- 
lus, the  Emperor  had  named  to  be  his  co- regent,  with 
the  title  of  Csesar.  Nevertheless  this  unlooked-for 
favour  was  no  valid  earnest  of  good-will.  Constan- 
tius loved  to  destroy  his  enemies  after  having  lulled 
away  mistrust  by  a  display  of  exuberant  affection. 

"  Well,  Glycon,  Constantia  may  beg  me  as  much  as 
she  likes,  in  future,  to  go  out  in  false  hair  !  But  it  's 
all  over  for  me  !     I  '  ve  done  with  it  !  " 

*'  We  warned  your  Majesty  that  it  was  dangerous." 

But  Csesar,  stretched  on  the  soft  cushions  of  the  litter, 
had  already  forgotten  his  alarm,  and  cried,  laughing — 

* '  Glycon !  Glycon !  did  you  see  the  old  woman  roll- 
ing on  the  ground  with  my  beard  ?  " 

When  they  arrived  at  the  palace  Csesar  ordered — 

' '  Quick !  lyCt  me  have  a  perfumed  bath  and  supper 
The  walk  has  famished  me." 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  59 

A  courier  came  near  holding  a  letter. 

"  What  is  it,  Norban  ?  No,  no,  we  will  have  busi- 
ness to-morrow  morning." 

'  *  Let  the  magnanimity  of  Caesar  pardon  me  !  It  is 
an  important  message  sent  direct  from  the  camp  of  the 
Emperor  Constantius." 

"  From  Constantius  ?    Give  it  me." 

Gallus  broke  the  seal  of  the  missive,  read,  and  grew 
pale.  His  knees  gave  way  —  he  would  have  almost 
fallen  without  the  support  of  his  courtiers. 

Constantius,  in  exquisite  and  flattering  terms,  in- 
vited his  tenderly-loved  cousin  to  come  to  Milan.  At 
the  same  time  the  Emperor  summoned  the  two  legions 
lodged  at  Antioch,  the  only  bodyguard  left  to  Gallus. 
Constantius  designed  thus  to  leave  him  defenceless  and 
draw  his  rival  into  the  snare.  When  Gallus  had  re- 
covered presence  of  mind  he  murmured  weakly — 

*'  Call  my  wife  !" 

"  Your  Majesty's  Imperial  consort  has  just  set  out 
for  Antioch." 

* '  What  !    She  knows  nothing  of  this  ? ' ' 

*'No." 

"  My  God,  my  God  !  What  is  to  be  done  ?  What 
can  be  done  without  her  ?  Tell  the  envoy  of  the  Em- 
peror— No,  say  nothing  to  him — I  scarcely  know — How 
is  it  possible  to  arrive  at  a  decision  alone  ?  Send  a 
swift  post  to  Constantia.  .  .  .  Say  that  Caesar 
begs  her  to  return  !     My  God,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

He  paced  up  and  down  distractedly,  now  hiding  his 
face  in  his  hands,  now  nervously  twisting  his  fair  beard 
and  repeating,  *'  No,  no,  nothing  in  the  world  will  in- 
duce me  to  go.  I  would  rather  die  !  Ah  !  I  know 
Constantius  !  " 

Another  messenger  came  up,  a  scroll  in  his  hand. 


6o  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

*'  From  the  spouse  of  Caesar  !  Her  Highness  in 
leaving  begged  you  to  sign  this  as  soon  as  possible. ' ' 

' '  What  !  Another  sentence  of  death  ?  .  .  . 
Clement  of  Alexandria  .  .  .  this  is  really  too 
much.     Three  a  day.     .     .     ." 

*'  Caesar,  it  was  your  consort's  desire." 

"  Well,  well,  what  matters  it  ?  Nothing!  Where  's 
the  pen  ?  Nothing  matters  now  !  But  why  has  she 
gone  away  ?  How  can  I  get  out  of  this  pretty  pass 
single-handed  ?  " 

And  having  signed  the  death-warrant  he  fixed  those 
charming  and  listless  blue  eyes  upon  the  servants. 

"  The  bath  is  ready,  sire,  and  the  supper  will  be 
served  after  it. '  * 

'*  The  supper  ?  I  'm  hungry  no  longer.  But  what 
dish  is  there  ?  ' ' 

''  Truffles  from  Africa." 

**  Fresh  gathered  ?  " 

**  They  arrived  this  morning." 

**  Would  n't  it  be  better  to  raise  an  army,  eh? 
What  do -you  say,  my  friends  ?  I  feel  so  overwhelmed. 
.  .  .  Truffles,  you  say  ?  I  was  thinking  about 
truffles  only  this  afternoon." 

The  agitation  of  his  countenance  gave  way  to  the 
airiest  of  smiles.  Before  plunging  into  the  water, 
which  was  made  milky  and  iridescent  by  the  infusion 
of  perfumes,  Gallus  waved  his  hand  lightly  : 

*'  Pooh  !  the  great  thing  is 'hot  to  think  !  God  have 
mercy  on  us  all !  .  .  .  Perhaps  after  all  Constantia 
will  smooth  over  the  matter.     .     .     ." 

And  his  chubby  face  suddenly  lighted  whileheplunged 
with  glee  into  the  scented  water.    He  called  out  gaily— 

"  Tell  the  head  cook  to  add  a  dressing  of  red  pepper 
to  the  truffles  !  " 


VII 

AT  Nicomedia,  at  Pergamos,  and  at  Smyrna  Julian, 
now  nineteen  years  old  and  an  enthusiast  for 
Hellenic  wisdom,  had  heard  much  of  the  famous  mage 
and  sophist,  lamblicus  of  Chaldea,  a  pupil  of  the  Neo- 
Platonist,  Porphyrins.  Men  used  commonly  to  call 
him  "the  Divine"  lamblicus.  In  order  to  see  this 
master,  Julian  made  a  journey  to  Ephesus. 

lamblicus  was  a  little  thin  and  wrinkled  old  man. 
He  liked  complaining  of  his  ailments — gout,  rheumat- 
ism, nervous  headache;  he  abused  physicians,  but  w^as 
zealous  in  carrying  out  their  advice,  and  used  to  speak 
with  deep  interest  of  drugs  and  infusions  of  herbs.  He 
always  wore,  even  in  summer,  a  double  tunic  ;  never 
seemed  warm  enough,  and  would  sit  basking  in  the 
sun  like  a  lizard. 

From  his  youth  up  lamblicus  had  broken  himself  of 
the  habit  of  meat-eating,  and  spoke  of  it  with  disgust 
as  a  practice  beyond  his  comprehension.  His  servant 
used  to  prepare  for  him  a  special  broth,  made  of  barley- 
water,  warm  wine,  and  honey,  he  being  toothless  and 
unable  to  masticate  bread. 

He  was  always  surrounded  by  numberless  admiring 
students  who  had  travelled  from  Rome,  Antioch, 
Carthagena  ;  from  Egypt,  Mesopotamia,  and  Persia,  to 
become  his  pupils. 

All  stoutly  believed  lamblicus  could  work  miracles, 
lamblicus  treated  them  like  a  father  irritated  at  seeing 
round  him  so  many  weaklings.     When  they  began  to 

6i 


62  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

discuss  and  to  wrangle,  the  master  would  make  a 
sweeping  gesture,  followed  by  a  grimace  expressive  of 
physical  pain.  He  spoke  gently,  and  in  a  low-toned, 
agreeable  voice;  the  louder  other  folk  shouted  the 
more  subdued  his  own  tone  became.  He  hated  all 
noise,  and  quarrelsome  voices  as  much  as  creaking 
sandals. 

Julian  gazed  in  disappointed  perplexity  at  this  chilly, 
sickly,  and  whimsical  old  man.  What  power  drew  to- 
wards him  the  world  of  philosophy  ?  He  remembered 
the  story  of  pupils — that  one  night  the  divine  mas- 
ter during  prayer  was  upraised  by  some  invisible  force 
to  a  height  of  twelve  cubits  from  earth,  wrapped  in  a 
golden  glory.  Another  tale  was  about  a  miracle,  by 
which  the  master  had  smitten  from  a  rock  two  warm 
springs,  Bros  and  Anteros,  the  two  Daemons  of  love — 
the  one  dull-souled,  the  other  joyous.  lamblicus,  it 
was  said,  had  caressed  both,  like  children,  and  at  a 
word  caused  them  to  disappear. 

But  in  listening  to  the  master  Julian  never  succeeded 
in  discovering  the  potency  of  his  words.  The  meta- 
physic  of  the  school  of  Porphyrins  seemed  to  him  dull, 
dead,  and  painfully  complicated.  lamblicus  would,  it 
is  true,  emerge  a  playful  victor  from  the  most  difficult 
dialectical  discussions.  His  teaching  about  God,  about 
the  World,  about  the  Ideas,  was  full  of  profound  learn- 
ing; but  in  it  lay  no  vital  stimulus.  Julian  had  hoped 
otherwise,  and  nevertheless  he  hung  about,  and  did 
not  set  off  again  homewards.  The  eyes  of  lamblicus 
were  strange,  green,  and  deeply-sunk  in  his  bronzed 
face.  Julian  was  persuaded  that  these  weird  and  by 
no  means  holy  eyes  betokened  some  hidden  wisdom, 
the  occult  wisdom  of  the  serpent,  concerning  which 
lamblicus  never  spoke  to  his  pupils.     But  when  * '  the 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  63 

Divine,"  in  his  cracked  voice,  used  to  ask  why  his 
barley  broth  was  not  ready,  or  complained  of  gout,  the 
spell  was  broken. 

On  one  occasion  lamblicus  was  sauntering  with 
Julian  on  the  seashore,  outside  the  town.  It  was  a 
soft  and  melancholy  evening.  Behind  the  castle  of 
Panormos  in  the  distance  glittered,  wnth  their  array 
of  statues,  the  terraces  of  the  celebrated  temple  of  the 
Kphesian  Artemis. 

The  dark  reeds  along  the  sandy  shore  made  no  rustle. 
It  was  the  spot  where  Latona  gave  birth  to  Artemis  and 
Apollo.  Smoke  of  numberless  altars  in  the  sacred 
Orthegian  wood  was  rising  in  columns  into  the  sky. 
To  the  south  the  Samian  mountains  shone  blue  on  the 
horizon.  Wavelets  fell  calmly  as  the  breathings  of  a 
child,  and  pellucid  waves  swelled  over  the  rocks.  The 
setting  sun,  hidden  behind  vapour,  gilded  the  edge  of 
enormous  cloud-masses. 

lamblicus  seated  himself  upon  a  boulder,  and  Julian 
threw  himself  on  the  ground  at  his  feet.  The  master 
caressed  the  thick  black  locks  of  the  pupil. 

"  Are  you  sad?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  know  you  are  sad.  You  seek  and  you  do  not 
find.  You  have  not  the  strength  to  say  *  He  is,'  and 
you  are  afraid  to  say  ^ He  is  not.'  " 

"  How  have  you  guessed  this.  Master  ?  " 

**  My  poor  boy  !  for  fifty  years  have  I  not  suffered 
from  the  same  pain  ?  And  I  shall  suffer  from  it  till  I 
die.  Do  you  imagine  that  I  know  Him  better  than  you 
— that  I  have  discovered  what  you  have  missed  ?  That 
is  the  birth-pain  that  nev^er  ceases.  Beside  it  other 
tortures  are  as  nothing.  People  think  that  they  suffer 
from  hunger,  from  poverty,  from  thirst;  in  reality  they 


64  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

suffer  only  from  the  thought  that  perhaps  He  has  no 
existence.  Who  shall  dare  to  say  *  He  exists  7iot  f ' 
and  yet  what  superhuman  strength  one  must  have  to 
say,  '  Heis'  /" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you,  even  you,  have 
never  come  near  Him  ?  ' ' 

' '  Thrice  in  my  life  have  I  borne  the  ecstacy  of  feel- 
ing myself  wholly  at  one  with  Him.  Plotinus  felt  it 
four  times,  Porphyrins  five  times.  But  as  for  me,  the 
moments  in  my  existence  in  which  life  was  worth 
living  were  precisely  three." 

*'  I  have  questioned  your  pupils  on  this  subject;  they 
knew  nothing." 

"  Have  they  the  courage  to  know?  The  shell  of 
wisdom  is  enough  for  them  ;  the  kernel,  for  almost 
everybody,  is  deadly." 

*'  Well,  let  me  die,  Master  !     Give  the  core  to  me  !  " 

**  Have  you  courage  ?  " 

*'  Yes  ;  but  speak — speak  !  " 

*'  And  what  can  I  tell  you  ?  I  do  not  know,  .  .  . 
and  need  I  tell  you  ?  I^isten  to  the  calmness  of  the 
evening,  and  the  secret  will  be  yours  without  words  of 
mine.     .     .     ." 

He  kept  stroking  Julian's  head;  the  boy  was  dream- 
ing, "  This,  this  is  what  I  waited  for,"  and  clasping 
the  knees  of  lamblicus  he  falteringly  entreated — 

**  Master,  have  pity  !  .  .  .  Reveal  it  all !  .  .  . 
Do  not  desert  me  !  " 

With  green  and  strangely  motionless  eyes  kept 
steadily  on  the  clouds,  lamblicus  murmured,  as  if 
speaking  to  himself : 

*'  Yes,  we  have  all  forgotten  the  voice  of  God.  Like 
children  estranged  from  the  cradle  from  the  face  of 
their  father,  we  hear  Him,  and  we  do  not  recognise 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  65 

Him.  To  hear  His  voice,  every  earthly  cry  in  our 
souls  must  cease.  Just  so  long  as  reason  shines  and 
illumines  our  souls,  we  remain  imprisoned  in  ourselves 
and  see  not  God.  But  when  reason  is  put  by,  ecstacy 
falls  upon  us  like  the  dew  of  night — that  ecstacy  which 
the  evil  cannot  know.  The  wise,  the  good  alone  can 
become,  of  their  own  will,  lyres  vibrating  under  the 
hand  of  God.  Whence  comes  that  beam  which  falls 
into  the  soul  ?  I  do  not  know.  It  comes  unawares, 
and  when  one  least  expects  it.  To  search  for  it  is  use- 
less. God  is  not  remote  from  us.  One  must  make 
ready,  with  a  soul  becalmed  ;  and  simply  wait,  as  the 
eyes  await  (according  to  the  saying  of  the  poet)  the 
rush  of  the  sun  from  dark  ocean.  God  does  not  come, 
God  does  not  go  away  ;  He  is  revealed.  He  is,  what 
the  universe  is  not,  the  negation  of  everything  that 
exists.     He  is  nothing,  and  He  is  All." 

lamblicus  rose  and  slowly  extended  his  wasted 
arms  : 

**  Be  still,  be  still,  I  tell  you  !  Let  all  things  listen 
for  Him  !  He  is  here  !  Let  the  earth  and  the  sea,  let 
even  the  sky  be  dumb  !  Listen  !  ...  It  is  He 
who  fills  the  universe,  the  very  atoms  sing  with  His 
breath  ;  He  who  illumines  matter  and  chaos — at  which 
the  gods  tremble — ^just  as  the  setting  sun  illumines  that 
dark  cloud. ' ' 

Julian  listened.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  master's 
calm  weak  voice  was  filling  the  world,  was  reaching 
the  heights  of  the  heaven,  and  the  last  confines  of  the 
sea.  But  the  boy's  sadness  was  so  deep  that  it  escaped 
from  his  bosom  in  an  involuntary  sigh. 

'*  Father,  forgive  me  if  the  question  is  a  folly  ;  but 
if  it  is  thus  with  the  world  why  go  on  living  ?  Why 
this  eternal  interchange  of  life  and  death  ?    Why  pain  ? 


66  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Why  evil  ?  Why  the  burden  of  the  body  ?  Why 
doubt  ?    Why  this  dark  thirst  for  the  impossible  ?  " 

lamblicus  looked  at  him  with  gentleness,  and  anew 
passed  his  hand  over  Julian's  head.     He  answered  : 

**  Ah,  my  son,  that  is  the  very  seat  of  the  mystery  ! 
there  is  no  evil,  there  is  no  body,  there  is  no  universe, 
if  He  exists  !  Think  !  it  is  He,  ^^'the  universe  !  The 
body,  evil,  the  universe,  all  are  a  mirage,  a  deception 
of  the  living  senses.  All  we  have  once  rested  together 
upon  the  breast  of  God  in  the  bosom  of  invisible  light. 
But  there  came  a  time  when  we  beheld  from  on  high 
matter  in  its  darkness  and  deadness,  and  each  of  us  saw 
in  matter  its  own  image,  as  in  a  mirror.  And  the  soul 
mused  to  itself,  '  I  can,  and  I  will  to,  be  free  !  I  am 
like  Him  !  Why  not  dare  to  quit  Him  and  contain  all 
in  myself  ?  '  So  the  soul,  like  Narcissus  gazing  into 
the  brook,  fell  under  the  spell  of  its  own  image,  re- 
flected in  its  body  ;  and  then  she  fell  farther,  and 
desired  to  fall  for  ever,  to  rend  herself  from  God  for  ever. 
She  cannot  do  so.  The  feet  of  mortal  man  touch 
earth,  but  his  stature  lifts  him  through  the  heavens. 

'*  Upon  the  Eternal  Ladder  of  births  and  of  death, 
all  souls,  all  things  existing,  are  ascending  and  de- 
scending, sometimes  towards  Him,  sometimes  away 
from  Him,  seeking  to  leave  the  Father,  and  never  ful- 
filling their  endeavour.  Bach  soul  desires  to  be  God. 
It  weeps  for  the  breast  of  God,  has  no  rest  upon  earth, 
and  aspires  only  to  return  to  the  Absolute.  We  must 
return  to  Him,  and  then  all  things  will  become  God, 
and  God  will  be  in  All.  Do  you  imagine  that  you  are 
alone  in  regretting  Him  !  Are  you  not  aware  that  the 
whole  sum  of  things  is  yearning  for  Him  ?    Listen  ! ' ' 

The  sun  had  set.  The  edges  of  the  flaming  clouds 
had  sunk  into  ashes.     The  sea  had  become  pale,  light, 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  67 

flocculent  as  the  sky  ;  the  sky  deep  and  diaphanous  as 
the  sea.  Upon  the  road  a  cart  was  passing  by  ;  a 
young  man  and  woman  were  in  it  —  two  lovers,  per- 
haps. The  woman  was  singing  a  melancholy  love 
song.  When  they  had  passed  all  things  were  plunged 
into  silence  again,  and  became  sadder  still.  With 
hastened  strides,  the  oriental  night  swept  over  the 
earth.     Julian  murmured  : 

"  How  many  times  have  I  asked  myself  why  Nature 
was  so  sad,  and  why,  when  she  is  proudest  then  sad- 
dest of  all.  ..." 

lamblicus  answered  by  a  smile — 

"  Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  Look,  she  longs  to  say 
why ;  and  cannot  speak.  She  is  dumb.  She 
sleeps,  and  seeks  to  remember  in  her  dreams,  but 
Matter  weighs  down  her  eyelids.  Only  vaguely  can 
she  see  Him.  Everything  in  the  universe,  stars  and 
sea,  and  earth,  animals,  plants,  and  people  are  dreams  of 
Nature,  thinking  of  God.  What  she  so  contemplates, 
is  born  and  dies.  She  creates  by  contemplation,  as  a 
dream  creates,  with  eflfortless  ease,  and  no  obstacle  to 
her  thought.  That  is  why  her  works  are  so  beautiful, 
so  free,  so  purposeless,  and  so  divine.  The  play  of  the 
dreams  of  Nature  is  like  the  play  of  clouds,  without 
end  or  beginning.  Outside  that  contemplation  of  hers 
nothing  in  the  world  exists  ;  and  the  deeper  that  con- 
templation is,  the  more  silent.  Believe  me.  Will, 
Action,  Effort,  are  only  enfeebled  and  deflected  con- 
templations of  God.  Nature,  in  her  grandiose  indo- 
lence, creates  forms  like  the  geometrician,  for  whom 
nothing  exists  except  what  he  sees  on  the  paper  before 
him.  She  brings  forms,  one  after  another,  out  of  the 
womb  of  her  dream.  But  her  mute  meditation  is  only 
the  appearance  of  reality.       Nature,    that    sleeping 


68  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Cybele,  never  lifts  her  eyelids,  and  never  finds  words. 
Man,  he  only,  has  found  utterance.  The  human  soul 
is  Nature  having  lifted  the  lashes  of  her  eyes,  awak- 
ened and  ready  to  see  God,  no  longer  in  half-slumber, 
but  really  and  face  to  face.     .     .     ." 

The  first  stars  were  shining  in  the  firmament  ;  now 
they  vanished,  and  now  sparkled  again  into  sight,  like 
diamonds  set  in  the  dark  azure.  More  stars,  and  yet 
more,  kindled  their  new  lights,  till  the  array  became 
incalculable.  lamblicus  lifted  his  finger  towards 
them — 

''Julian,  to  what  should  one  compare  the  universe 
of  all  those  stars  ?  One  might  liken  it  to  a  fisherman's 
net  thrown  into  the  sea.  God  fills  the  universe  as  the 
water  fills  the  net,  which  moves,  but  which  cannot  re- 
tain the  waters  ;  and  the  universe  desires,  but  cannot 
keep  God  in  her  meshes.  The  net  is  drawn,  but  God 
remains.  If  the  universe  made  no  stir  God  woulc? 
create  nothing  —  would  not  issue  from  the  calm  thai 
surrounds  Him.  For  whither  should  He  sweep,  and 
to  what  end  ?  Yonder,  in  the  realm  of  the  eternal 
Mothers,  in  the  soul  of  Calm,  dwell  the  seeds,  the 
Forms,  the  Ideas,  of  all  that  is,  has  been,  and  shall  be. 
The  germ  of  hearth-cricket  and  of  atom,  together  with 
the  germ  of  the  Olympian  god." 

Then  Julian  cried  aloud,  and  his  voice  rang  in  the 
silence  of  Nature  like  a  cry  of  mortal  pain — 

'*  But  who  then  is  He  ;  why  does  He  not  answer 
when  we  call  Him  ?  What  is  His  name  ?  I  wish  to 
know,  I  desire  to  know  Him,  to  hear  Him — to  see  Him 
— why  does  He  escape  my  thought  ?  Where  is  He  ? 
Where  does  He  dwell  ?  " 

**  My  poor  boy  !  What  matters  thought  to  Him  ? 
What  means  it  ?     He  has  no  name.     He  is  such,  that 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  6^ 

we  can  say  that  He  must  exist,  but  it  is  impossible  foi 
us  to  say  what  He  is.  But  do  you  think  that  3^ou  can 
suffer  love,  or  curse  Him,  without  singing  His  praises  ? 
The  All-Creator  is  Himself,  having  no  likeness  to  His 
creations.  When  you  say,  *  He  is  not,'  3'ou  are  exalt- 
ing Him  as  much  as  if  you  said  *  He  is.'  One  can 
affirm  nothing  about  Him,  because  He  is  above  exist- 
ence, reality,  and  life.  That  is  why  I  have  said  to  3'ou 
that  He  is  the  negation  of  the  universe  and  of  your 
thought.  Deny,  renounce  all  that  exists  for  us  here, 
and  yonder,  in  the  soundless  profundity  of  darkness, 
as  in  the  light,  you  shall  find  Him  still.  Give  Him 
friends,  family,  country,  heaven,  earth,  yourself,  your 
reason,  then  you  will  no  longer  see  light,  you  shall 
yourself  be  it.  You  will  not  say,  *  He  and  I,'  because 
you  wnll  feel  that  He  and  you  are  ^  one';  and  your 
soul  will  smile  at  your  body  as  at  a  phantasm  of  the 
desert.  You  shall  become  silence,  you  shall  no  more 
find  utterance.  And  if  at  that  moment  the  world 
should  crumble  away,  you  would  be  happy:  for  what 
would  the  world  signify  to  you,  since  you  shall  be  with 
Him  ?  Your  soul  shall  not  desire,  because  He  has  no 
desires  ;  it  shall  no  longer  live,  because  He  is  above 
living  :  it  shall  no  longer  think,  because  He  is  above 
thought.  Thought  is  the  search  for  light.  He  seeks 
not,  because  He  is  Himself  the  light.  He  penetrates 
the  whole  soul — He  laps  it  in  Himself.  And  then,  im- 
partial and  solitary,  it  rests  abov^e  reason  higher  than 
goodness,  higher  than  beauty,  reposes  in  the  infinite, 
on  the  breast  of  God  the  Father  of  Light.  The  Soul 
becomes  God,  or,  to  put  it  better,  it  remembers  that  in 
the  night  of  ages  it  has  been,  is,  and  shall  be,  God. 
.  .  .  Such,  my  son,  is  the  life  of  the  Olympians  ; 
such  is  the  life  of  the  wise  and  heroic  among  men  ; 


70  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

renunciation  of  the  universe,  contempt  of  earthly  pas- 
sions, the  flight  of  the  Soul  towards  God,  whom  at  last 
it  sees  face  to  face. ' ' 

lamblicus  ceased  speaking.  Julian  fell  at  his  feet 
without  daring  to  touch  them,  and  kissed  the  earth 
where  they  rested.  Then  he  raised  his  head  and  gazed 
into  those  strange  green  eyes,  in  which  dwelt  the  wis- 
dom of  the  serpent.  They  appeared  calmer  and  deeper 
than  the  sky,  and  as  if  exhaling  a  miraculous  power. 

Julian  murmured — 

''  Master  !  thou  canst  do  all  things.  I  believe  ! 
Command  the  mountains,  and  they  shall  approach 
each  other  !  Be  like  God.  Work  a  miracle,  create 
the  impossible.     Grant  my  prayer!     I  believe  !  " 

*'  My  poor  boy,  what  are  you  asking  for  ?  Is  not  the 
miracle  which  may  be  accomplished  in  your  soul  more 
beautiful  than  any  wonders  which  /  can  work  ?  Son, 
is  it  not  a  terrible  and  a  happy  miracle,  this  power  in 
the  name  of  which  you  can  dare  to  say  :  '  He  is, '  and 
if  '  He  is  not '  it  matters  nothing,  *  He  will  be, '  and 
you  say  '  Let  God  exist !     Amen,  so  be  it  ! '  " 


VIII 

WHEN  lamblicus  and  Julian,  returning  from  theit 
walk,  were  crossing  Panormos,  the  crowded 
harbour- quarter  of  Ephesus,  they  noticed  an  unusual 
tumult ;  folk  running  hither  and  thither,  waving 
torches  and  shouting — 

"  The  Christians  are  destroying  the  temples  !  Woe 
be  on  us  !  "  and  others  :  "  Death  to  the  Olympian 
gods  !     Astarte  is  vanquished  by  Christ  !  ' ' 

lamblicus  attempted  a  detour  through  less  frequented 
streets,  but  the  howling  mob  caught  and  swept  them  in 
its  course  towards  the  temple  of  the  Ephesian  Artemis. 
The  superb  temple,  built  by  Dynocrates,  stood  out 
sharply,  dark  and  austere,  against  the  starry  sky.  The 
gleam  of  the  torches  flickered  up  gigantic  colonnades, 
pedestal  led  on  beautiful  little  groups  of  carj^atids.  Up 
to  this  period,  not  only  the  Romans,  but  all  tribes  in 
the  country  had  adored  this  goddess.  Someone  in  the 
crowd  cried  out  in  a  quavering  voice — 

*'  Hail  to  the  divine  Diana  of  the  Ephesians  !  " 

Hundreds  of  voices  responded — 

"  Death  to  the  Olympians  and  to  your  Diana  !  " 

Above  the  Arsenal  and  its  towering  monument  rose 
a  blood-red  light.  Julian  glanced  at  his  divine  master, 
and  scarcely  recognised  him.  lamblicus  was  trans- 
formed back  into  a  sickly  and  timid  old  man.  He 
complained  of  headache,  expressed  his  fear  of  an  attack 
of  rheumatism,  and  doubted  whether  his  servant  had 
not  forgotten  to  prepare  his  fomentations.    Julian  lent 

71 


72  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

him  his  own  cloak ;  but  he  remained  chilly,  and  stopped 
his  ears,  with  a  dolorous  grimace,  against  the  shouts 
and  laughter  of  the  crowd,  which  he  dreaded.  lambli- 
cus  used  to  say  there  was  nothing  more  stupid  and  dis- 
gusting than  the  spirit  of  the  people.  He  pointed  out 
to  his  pupil  the  faces  hurrying  past — 

"  I^ook  at  the  monstrous  vice  in  that  expression  ! 
What  hopeless  triviality !  what  self-confident  assertion ! 
Does  it  not  make  one  ashamed  of  being 
human,  to  share  human  form  with  mud  like  that  !  " 

An  old  Christian  woman  hobbled  along,  telling  a 
story — 

'*  And  my  grandson,  he  says  to  me,  *  Grandmother, 
make  me  some  meat-broth.'  Well,  I  tell  him,  '  Yes, 
darling,  I  '11  go  to  the  market  soon,'  and  to  myself  I  'm 
thinking  meat  is  nowadays  cheaper  than  bread.  So  I 
buy  some  meat  for  five  obols  and  have  it  cooked.  And 
in  comes  a  neighbour  and  screams  at  me,  *  What  are 
you  cooking  there  ?  Don't  you  know  that  the  meat  of 
the  market  is  not  fit  to  touch  to-day  ?  * 

'''Why  so?' 

"  '  The  priests  of  the  goddess  have  sprinkled  the 
whole  market  with  water  from  the  sacrifices!  There  's 
not  a  Christian  in  the  town  eating  the  meat  so  spoiled. 
And  they  're  going  to  kill  the  sacrificers,  and  pull 
down  the  devilish  temple  ! ' 

"  I  threw  the  broth  to  the  dogs  ;  just  think  !  five 
obols,  all  wasted  ! — more  than  a  day's  wage  thrown 
away  —  but  all  the  same  I  would  n't  make  my  own 
grandson  unclean  !  " 

Others  were  telling  how,  in  the  previous  year,  some 
miserly  Christian  had  eaten  of  the  impure  meat,  which 
had  so  rotted  his  intestines  that  his  very  relatives  had 
had  to  abandon  him,  on  account  of  the  contagion. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  73 

In  the  public  square  rose  a  beautiful  little  temple  to 
Diana-Selene-Phoebe-Astarte — the  triple  goddess  Hec- 
ate, mother  of  the  gods.  Like  enormous  wasps  greedily 
intent  upon  a  honeycomb,  monks  had  surrounded  the 
temple  on  all  sides,  crawling  along  the  lovely  white 
cornice,  clambering  up  ladders,  and  to  the  chant  of 
psalms,  smashing  the  statues  and  bas-reliefs. 

The  columns  were  trembling  on  their  bases,  frag- 
ments of  marble  flying  in  all  directions.  The  delicate 
edifice  seemed  to  wince  like  a  living  creature.  Finally 
an  attempt  was  made  to  set  the  temple  on  fire ;  but  as 
it  was  wholly  built  of  marble,  all  efforts  in  this  direction 
were  fruitless. 

Suddenly  a  strange  noise  rang  out  from  the  interior, 
a  deafening  and  resonant  series  of  shocks,  while 
triumphant  howls  of  the  crowd  rose  to  the  sky. 

"  Bring  ropes,  ropes  !     Hide  her  immodest  limbs  !  " 

In  a  hubbub  of  hymns  and  wild  laughter  the  mob,  by 
means  of  ropes,  dragged  out  of  the  temple  the  superb 
silver  body  of  the  goddess,  which  had  been  moulded 
by  Scopas.     Step  by  step,  it  came  thundering  down. 

*'  Cast  her  in  the  fire  !  in  the  fire  !  " 

The  figure  was  dragged  into  the  muddy  market- 
place. There  a  monk  was  declaiming  a  passage  from 
the  celebrated  edict  of  Constantine  II,  the  brother  of 
Constantius — 

*'  *  Let  there  be  an  end  of  superstition,  and  let  sacri- 
fices be  abolished  '  {Cesset  super stitio  sacrificioruvi^  abole- 
aturinsania  /). 

*'  Fear  nothing  ;  break,  sack,  plunder  everything  in 
that  temple  of  demons  !  "  Another  was  reading  by 
torchlight  from  a  parchment  scroll  the  following  words 
from  the  book  De  errore  profanarum  religionum^  by 
Firmicus  Maternus — 


74  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

**  Divine  E)mperors'!  Come  !  succour  the  unfortun- 
ate heathen.  lyet  us  snatch  them  by  force  from  hell 
rather  than  leave  them  to  perish.  Seize  the  temple- 
ornaments  and  let  their  riches  feed  your  treasury.  Let 
him  who  sacrifices  to  idols  be  torn  from  the  earth,  root 
and  branch  {Sacrijicans  diis  eradicabitur).  Thou  shalt 
deliver  him  to  death;  thou  shalt  stone  him  with  stones, 
were  that  offender  thy  son,  thy  brother,  or  the  wife 
that  sleeps  upon  thy  heart  ! ' ' 

And  over  the  crowd  swept  the  exultant  shout — 

''  Death  I     Death  to  the  gods  of  Olympus  !  " 

An  Arian  monk  of  gigantic  stature,  his  lank  black 
hair  plastered  to  his  sweaty  face,  heaved  an  axe  above 
the  goddess,  seeking  where  to  strike. 

A  voice  advised — 

*  *  In  the  belly  !     In  her  abominable  belly  ! ' ' 

The  great  silver  body  rolled  over  mutilated  ;  the 
blows  rang  pitiless,  leaving  gaps  bitten  in  the  metal. 

An  old  pagan  stood  by  and  veiled  his  face  from  the 
sacrilege.  He  was  secretly  weeping  at  the  thought 
that  now  the  end  of  the  world,  the  end  of  everything, 
was  come,  for  the  earth  would  no  longer  bring  forth  a 
blade  of  corn. 

A  hermit  from  the  deserts  of  Mesopotamia,  clothed 
in  sheepskin,  wearing  coarse  sandals  and  an  empty 
gourd  slung  from  his  shoulder,  stood  over  the  statue, 
sheep-crook  in  hand — 

' '  This  forty  years  I  have  never  washed,  that  I  might 
not  see  my  nakedness,  nor  fall  into  temptation.  And 
yet  coming  into  cities,  straight  one  perceives  these  ac- 
cursed gods  without  a  rag  upon  them.  How  long 
must  we  endure  these  devilish  temptations  !  At  the 
hearth,  in  the  street,  on  the  roof,  in  the  baths,  these 
idols  everywhere  above  one's  head  ?    .     .     .     Faugh  I 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  75 

Faugh  !  Faugh  !  How  can  I  spit  enough  disgust  on 
things  like  these  ?  " 

The  old  man  spurned  the  prostrate  woman's  form 
with  his  sandal  in  energetic  horror  ;  stamped  on  the 
bare  breast  as  if  it  were  alive,  and  kept  scoring  it  with 
the  sharp  nails  of  his  sandals,  stuttering  with  rage — 

"  Take  that,  and  that — and  that,  O  foul  immodesty !  " 

The  lips  of  the  goddess  lay  with  their  calm  smile 
under  the  soles  of  his  feet. 

The  crowd  began  to  haul  the  statue  upright  in  order 
to  tilt  it  into  the  bonfire.  Drunken  garlic-smelling  ap- 
prentices spat  in  the  metal  face.  An  enormous  blaze, 
built  of  the  massed  wreckage  of  market-booths,  quickly 
arose.  The  statue  was  dropped  into  the  flames  to  be 
melted  into  silver  bullion. 

''  There  are  five  talents'  worth  !  think— thirty  thou- 
sand pieces  of  silver!  We  '11  send  half  to  the  Emperor 
to  pay  the  army,  and  take  the  other  half  for  famished 
folk  here.  Cybele  will  bring  solace  to  mankind  at 
last,  anyhow  !  Thirty  thousand  pieces  of  silver  for  the 
soldiers  and  the  poor  !  " 

"  Bring  fuel,  more  wood  !  "  The  flame  mounted 
still  more  fiercely  ;  the  mob  burst  into  laughter. 

"  We  '11  see  whether  the  devil  flies  out  of  her  ! 
There  's  a  demon  in  every  idol,  you  know,  and  two  or 
three  inside  goddesses  ! ' ' 

"  When  she  begins  to  melt  it  '11  get  too  hot  for  the 
devil,  and  he  '11  come  wriggling  out  of  her  mouth  like 
a  red  serpent  !  ' ' 

'*  No  !  you  must  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  before- 
hand. If  you  don't,  he  can  glide  into  the  earth.  Last 
year,  when  we  pulled  down  the  temple  of  Aphrodite, 
someone  sprinkled  her  with  holy  water  and — can  you 
believe  it  ?— a  whole  flight  of  devilets  scampered  away 


76  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

from  underneath  the  statue — I  saw  them  myself—green 
and  black  and  hairy  all  over !  And  when  the  head  was 
broken  open  the  big  devil  came  out  of  her  neck,  with 
great  horns  and  a  tail  as  bald  as  a  mangy  dog  !  ' ' 

At  this  moment  lamblicus,  half  dead  with  terror, 
seized  Julian  by  the  hand  and  dragged  him  away-^ 

'*  I^ook  !  Do  you  see  those  two  men?  They  are 
spies  sent  by  Constantius.  Your  brother  Gallus  has 
been  taken  under  escort  to  Constantinople.  Be  care- 
ful ;  this  very  day  there  will  be  a  report  sent  in  as  to 
how  you  bear  yourself." 

'*  But  what  is  there  to  be  done,  Master  ?  I  am  well 
accustomed  to  it ;  for  years  they  have  kept  spies  about 
me." 

"  For  years  !  Why  have  you  said  nothing  of  it  to 
me?" 

The  hand  of  lamblicus  shook  within  that  of  Julian. 

*'  Why  are  those  two  whispering  together  ?  L,ook  at 
them  —  they  must  be  pagans.  .  .  .  Now  then  old 
man,  hurry  up,  bring  wood!  "  cried  out  a  ragged  rascal 
in  a  triumphant  tone. 

lamblicus  whispered  into  Julian's  ear — 

"  Let  us  despise  it  all,  and  in  contempt  resign 
ourselves.  Human  stupidity  can  never  hurt  the 
gods  !  " 

So  saying  the  "  Divine  "  lamblicus  took  an  enormous 
faggot  from  the  hands  of  the  Christian  and  cast  it  into 
the  fire.  At  first  Julian  could  scarcely  believe  his 
eyes.  The  now-smiling  spies  stared  at  him,  with  a 
curious  fixity. 

Then  weakness,  and  his  own  habitual  hypocrisy  for 
his  own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  others,  won  the  day. 
He  went  to  the  heap  of  wood,  chose  the  largest  log, 
and,  after  lamblicus,  threw  it  into  the  blaze  in  which 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  n 

the  mutilated  body  of  the  goddess  was  already  melting. 
He  clearly  saw  drops  of  silver  rolling  on  her  face  as  in 
a  death-sweat,  and  the  lips  still  keeping  their  invincible 
smile. 


IX 


"  T    OOK  at  those  fellows  dressed  in  black,  Julian  ! 

i  J  They  are  shadows  of  nightfall,  shadows  of 
death.  Soon  there  will  not  be  a  single  ancient  white 
robe  left,  nor  a  single  sun-steeped  piece  of  marble.  .  .  . 
All  is  over  !  " 

So  spoke  the  young  sophist,  Antoninus,  son  of  the 
prophetess  Sospitra  and  of  ^desius,  the  Neo-Platonist. 
He  was  standing  with  Julian  on  the  terrace  of  the 
temple  of  Pergamos,  in  bright  sunshine,  under  a  sky 
of  cloudless  blue.  Along  the  foot  of  the  balustrade 
was  carven  the  revolt  of  the  Titans.  The  gods  were 
triumphing  ;  and  the  hoofs  of  the  winged  horses  crush- 
ing the  serpent  bodies  of  the  antique  giants.  An- 
toninus pointed  to  the  carving — 

*'  Ah  !  Julian,  the  Olympians  conquered  the  Titans, 
but  now  the  Olympians  in  their  turn  will  be  beaten  by 
barbaric  gods.    These  temples  will  become  tombs.  .  .  ." 

Antoninus  was  a  handsome  youth,  straight-limbed 
as  one  of  the  old  statues,  but  his  health  had  been 
broken  for  years  by  an  incurable  malady,  and  his  face 
had  become  yellow,  lean,  and  melancholy. 

"  I  pray  the  gods,"  went  on  Antoninus,  "  I  entreat 
the  gods  not  to  suffer  me  to  see  that  night — that  I  may 
die  before  it  comes.  Rhetoricians,  sophists,  poets, 
sages,  artists,  none  of  us  are  wanted  any  more.  We 
are  born  in  too  late  a  day.  .  .  .  All  is  over  for  us  !  " 

"  And  suppose  you  are  mistaken  ?  "  hazarded  Julian. 

'*  No,  all  's  over  !  We  are  not  as  our  forefathers  \ 
We  are  sick,  strength  fails  us. ' ' 

78 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  79 

Julian's  face  seemed  as  worn  and  haggard  as  that  of 
Antoninus.  The  projecting  lower  lip  gave  him  an  ex- 
pression of  taciturn  arrogance.  The  thick  eyebrows 
were  knitted  in  bitter  obstinacy  ;  precocious  wrinkles 
already  furrowed  his  cheeks.  The  long  nose  had 
grown  longer  than  ever  ;  and  his  always  strange  eyes 
were  now  burning  with  a  dry,  feverish,  disagreeable 
fire.  He  still  wore  the  monkish  habit.  During  the 
day  he  still  attended  church,  as  hitherto  ;  worshipped 
relics  ;  read  the  gospels  in  public,  and  was  preparing 
to  take  orders.  Sometimes  all  this  hypocrisy  seemed 
to  him  worse  than  useless.  He  foresaw  that  Gallus 
would  not  escape  a  premature  death,  and  knew  that  he 
himself  might  expect  it  at  any  moment. 

But  his  nights  Julian  was  wont  to  pass  in  the  great 
library  of  Pergamos,  where  he  was  studying  the  works 
of  the  great  foe  of  Christianity,  Libanius.  He  attended 
the  lectures  of  the  Greek  sophists,  ^desius  of  Perga- 
mos, Chrisantius  of  Sardinia,  Priscius  of  Thesephros, 
Eusebius  of  Minos,  Prceres,  and  Nymphidian.  These 
taught  him  much  about  what  he  had  already  heard 
from  lamblicus,  of  the  triad  of  the  Neo-Platonists,  and 
of  the  "  divine  ecstasy."     He  said  to  himself — 

*'  All  that  is  not  what  I  am  seeking;  they  are  hiding 
something  from  me!  " 

Priscius,  imitating  Pythagoras,  had  passed  five  years 
in  silence,  keeping  to  a  vegetarian  diet,  and  using 
neither  raiment  of  wool  nor  sandal  of  leather.  He 
wore  a  cloak  of  pure  white  linen  and  sandals  of  palm 
leaves  stitched  together. 

*'  In  our  age,"  he  used  to  say,  *'  the  thing  of  mo- 
ment is  to  be  able  to  hold  one's  tongue,  and  to  meditate 
on  dying  worthily." 

Thus  Priscius,  despising  all  things,  awaited  what  he 


So  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

called  the  catastrophe,   that  is  to  say,  the  complete 
victory  of  Christianity  over  the  Hellenists. 

The  wily  and  prudent  Chrisantius,  when  the  subject  of 
the  gods  was  touched  on,  would  cast  his  eyes  to  heaven, 
avowing  that  he  dared  not  talk  about  them,  knowing 
nothing,  and  having  forgotten  what  he  had  learnt  on 
the  subject.  And  he  advised  others  to  follow  his  own 
example.  As  for  magic,  miracles,  and  phantasms,  he 
would  hear  nothing  about  them, declaring  that  they  were 
criminal  deceptions,  forbidden  by  the  Imperial  laws. 

Julian  had  no  appetite,  slept  ill  ;  his  blood  was  boil- 
ing with  passion  and  impatience.  Every  morning  on 
awaking  he  would  wonder — 

''  Is  it  to  be  to-day  ?  " 

He  would  worry  the  poor  sages  with  ceaseless  ques- 
tions concerning  mysteries  and  miracles.  Some  of 
them  he  shocked,  especially  Chrisantius,  who  was  in 
the  habit  of  acquiescence  in  all  the  opinions  which 
seemed  to  him  most  foolish. 

On  one  occasion  ^desius,  a  timid  and  learned  old 
man,  pitying  Julian,  said  to  him — 

**  My  boy,  I  want  to  die  quietly  ;  you  are  young 
yet.  Leave  me  alone.  Address  yourself  to  my  dis- 
ciples ;  they  will  reveal  to  you  everything  I  have 
taught.  Yes,  there  are  many  things  about  which  we 
are  afraid  to  speak,  and  when  you  shall  have  been 
initiated  into  the  greater  mysteries,  you  will  perhaps 
be  ashamed  at  having  been  born  a  mere  mortal,  and  of 
having  remained  one  up  till  now." 

Kuthemus  of  Minda,  a  disciple  of  ^desius,  and  a 
jealous  and  malicious  fellow,  declared  to  Julian  : 
**  There  are  no  more  such  things  as  miracles.  Don't 
expect  any.  Men  have  badgered  the  gods  too  long. 
Magic  is  a  lie,  and  those  who  believe  in  it  are  idiots. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  8i 

But  if  you  are  still  hungry  for  wisdom,  and  absolutely 
must  have  illusions,  go  to  Maximus.  He  despises  our 
dialectical  philosophy,  and  yet  himself  .  .  .  But  I  don't 
like  speaking  ill  of  my  friends.  Just  hear,  however, 
what  happened  lately  in  a  temple  of  Hecate  whither 
Maximus  had  conducted  us  to  prove  his  art.  When 
we  had  gone  in  and  adored  the  goddess,  he  said  to  us  : 
*  Sit  down,  and  you  shall  see  a  miracle.'  We  sat  down. 
He  threw  on  the  altar  a  phimian-seed,  muttering  some- 
thing,— a  hymn  I  suppose, — and  then  we  saw  the  statue 
of  Hecate  smile  at  us  !  Maximus  said  to  us  :  *  Fear 
nothing  when  you  shall  see  the  two  torches  held  by 
the  goddess  kindle  of  themselves.  Behold  ! '  Before 
he  had  finished  the  sentence  the  lamps  were  alight, 
self-kindled  !" 

*'  The  miracle,  in  fact,  was  accomplished  !  "  cried 
Julian. 

**  Yes;  our  emotion  was  so  great  that  we  prostrated 
ourselves.  But  when  I  came  out  of  the  temple  I  asked 
myself,  '  Is  what  Maximus  does  worthy  of  true  phi- 
losophy ?  '  Read  Pythagoras,  Plato  —  there  shall  you 
find  wisdom.  By  divine  dialectic  to  lift  the  heart  of 
man — is  not  that  finer  than  any  miracle  ?  " 

But  Julian  was  listening  no  more  ;  his  eyes  sparkled 
as  he  gazed  at  the  surly  face  of  Kuthemus,  and  he 
murmured  as  he  went  forth  from  the  school — 

*'  Keep  your  books  and  your  dialectics  !  I  seek  life 
and  faith !  Can  they  exist  without  miracles  ?  I  thank 
thee,  Kuthemus,  thou  hast  pointed  me  to  the  man  I 
have  sought  for  long. ' ' 

With  a  bitter  smile  the  sophist  answered — 

**  Nephew  of  Constantine,  you  have  not  improved 
upon  your  ancestors.  Miracles  were  not  necessary  to 
the  faith  of  Socrates  !" 


AT  the  stroke  of  midnight,  in  the  vestibule  leading 
to  the  great  hall  of  the  mysteries,  Julian  flung 
off  his  novice's  robe.  The  sacrificial  mystagogues, 
initiators  into  the  pagan  ceremonial,  then  clothed  him 
anew  in  their  own  priestly  tunic,  woven  of  threads  of 
papyrus.  A  palm-branch  was  put  into  his  hand,  and 
his  feet  were  left  bare.  He  was  then  led  up  a  long  low 
hall,  the  vaults  of  which  were  supported  by  a  double 
row  of  bronze  Corinthian  columns.  Kach  column, 
formed  of  two  serpents  entwined,  bore  two  incense- 
burners  on  lofty  and  slender  branching  stands,  whence 
rose  thin  tongues  of  flame.  Dense  vapour  filled  the 
hall.  At  its  end  glittered  two  winged  golden  bulls, 
propping  a  splendid  throne,  on  which  was  seated, 
arrayed  in  a  long  black  tunic  powdered  thick  with 
emeralds  and  carbuncles,  and  in  demeanour  like  a  god, 
the  greatest  hierophant  of  all,  Maximus  of  Ephesus. 

The  slow  reverberant  voice  of  a  temple  slave  an- 
nounced the  opening  of  the  mysteries — 

**  If  any  impious,  or  Christian,  or  Epicurean  be  pre- 
sent in  this  assembly,  let  him  go  forth  !  " 

Instructed  in  advance  as  to  the  necessary  responses, 
Julian  pronounced  the  words — 

*'  I,et  the  Christians  go  forth  !  " 

The  choir  of  temple  slaves,  hidden  in  obscurity, 
took  up  the  burden — 

*' To  the  doors  !  To  the  doors!  I^et  the  Christians 
go  forth  !     I^et  the  impious  go  forth  !  " 

82 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  S^ 

Then  twenty-four  lads,  entirely  naked,  each  holding 
a  silver  sistrum,  like  a  crescent-moon,  came  forth  from 
the  shadow.  In  perfect  unison  they  raised  the  vibrat- 
ing instruments  above  their  heads,  and  with  one  grace- 
ful gesture  struck  the  resonant  strings,  which  gave 
forth  a  long  and  plaintive  note.    Maximus  made  a  sign. 

Someone  tightly  bandaged  Julian's  eyes  from  behind 
and  said  to  him  earnestly — 

' '  Go  forward  !  Fear  neither  Water,  Fire,  Spirits  ; 
nor  Bodies,   nor  Life,   nor  Death." 

He  felt  himself  dragged  forward  ;  an  iron  door 
opened  on  creaking  hinges.  He  was  pushed  through 
it  ;  a  stifling  atmosphere  beat  on  his  face  while  his 
feet  groped  down  slippery  and  twisted  steps.  Feeling 
his  way  down  this  endless  stair,  amidst  sepulchral 
silence,  it  seemed  at  last  that  he  must  be  a  great 
distance  underground.  He  proceeded  along  a  narrow 
passage — so  narrow  that  his  hands,  held  stiffly  to  his 
sides,  rubbed  along  the  walls.  Suddenly  his  bare  feet 
struck  moisture  ;  he  heard  water  flowing  ;  a  stream 
covered  his  ankles.  He  kept  on,  but  at  every  step  the 
water  rose,  reaching  first  his  calves,  then  his  knees, 
and  finally  his  loins.  His  teeth  began  to  chatter 
with  cold.  The  flood  rose  breast  high.  He  won- 
dered-- 

"  Perhaps  this  is  a  trap  ;  it  is  some  device  of  Maxi- 
mus for  killing  me,  to  do  the  Emperor  pleasure." 

But  he  held  stoutly  on,  forging  slowly  through  the 
water.  Finally  it  seemed  to  lessen,  till  at  last  it  com- 
pletely ebbed  away.  A  suffocating  heat,  as  from  the 
mouth  of  a  furnace,  gradually  enveloped  him,  so  that 
the  ground  scorched  his  feet.  Julian  thought  he  must 
be  walking  straight  into  an  oven  ;  blood  throbbed  in 
his  temples  ;  sometimes  the  heat  was  so  intense  that  it 


84  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

licked  his  cheek  like  a  flame.  But  the  lad  never 
wavered. 

In  its  turn  the  heat  diminished.  But  sickening 
odours  next  choked  his  breath.  Time  after  time  he 
stumbled  against  round  objects,  and  recognised  bones 
and  dead  men's  skulls. 

Suddenly  he  felt  someone  walking  by  his  side,  glid- 
ing along  noiselessly  like  a  shadow  ;  an  ice-cold  hand 
seized  his  own.  He  uttered  an  involuntary  cry.  Two 
hands  were  gently  pulling  at  his  clothes,  the  fleshless 
bones  piercing  their  withered  skin.  The  grip  of  these 
hands  became  playful  movements,  repulsive  caresses 
like  those  of  debauched  women.  Julian  felt  a  breath 
on  his  cheek  tainted  with  fusty  rottenness  and  mois- 
ture, and  then  became  aware  of  a  rapid  murmur  at  his 
ear,  like  the  rustle  of  leaves  on  a  night  in  autumn— 

* '  It  is  I  !  It  is  I  !  —  I  !  —  do  you  not  know  me 
again?     It  is  I  !— I  !  " 

' '  And  who,  who  art  thou  ?  ' '  stammered  Julian.  But 
immediately  he  recollected  his  promise  of  absolute 
silence. 

*  *  It  is  I  !  Shall  I  strip  the  bandage  from  your  eyes 
so  that  you  may  know  me  again,  may  meet  me  again  ?  " 
And  the  bony  fingers,  with  the  same  hideous  eager- 
ness, fluttered  over  his  face  as  if  seeking  to  drag  off  the 
bandage. 

A  deadly  chill  penetrated  Julian  to  the  heart,  and, 
through  habit,  he  thrice  crossed  himseif  involuntarily, 
as  in  childhood  at  some  bad  dream. 

A  clap  of  thunder  !  The  ground  heaved  under  his 
feet  !  He  felt  himself  falling  into  the  unknown  ;  and 
lost  consciousness. 

When  he  regained  his  senses  he  was  no  longer  blind- 
fold but  lay  on  cushions  in  a  huge  twilit  grotto.     A 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  85 

cloth,  soaked  in  penetrating  perfumes,  was  being  held 
to  his  nostrils.  Opposite  Julian  stood  a  lean  man  with 
a  coppery  skin  ;  it  was  the  gymnosophist  —  the  naked 
sage — assistant  of  Maximus. 

He  was  holding  high  above  his  head  a  motionless 
metallic  disc.  A  voice  said  to  Julian.  '*  Look  !  " 
Julian  gazed  at  the  dazzling  circle.  Its  brilliancy  was 
almost  painful  to  the  eyes.  Looking  at  it  fixedly  and 
long,  gradually  all  things  melted  and  lost  their  sharper 
outline.  A  pleasant  w^eakness  breathed  through  his 
being.  The  luminous  disc  no  longer  shone  in  the  void, 
but  in  his  own  mind  ;  his  e3^elids  descended  ;  a  sleepy 
smile  of  weariness  played  upon  his  submissive  lips. 
He  felt  a  hand  stroking  his  head,  and  a  voice 
asked — 

*'  Are  you  asleep?  " 

''Yes.  .  .  ." 

*'  Look  me  in  the  eyes  !  " 

Julian  obeyed  with  effort  and  perceived  Maximus 
stooping  over  him. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  seventy  years  old,  bearded 
to  the  girdle.  Thick  hair,  with  a  yellow  glitter  in  it, 
fell  thick  over  his  shoulders.  Deep  wrinkles,  furrowed 
by  thought  and  will,  and  not  by  suffering,  marked 
cheek  and  brow.  His  smile  was  like  the  smile  of 
women  who  are  at  once  witty,  mendacious,  and  en- 
chanting. But  it  w^as  the  eyes  of  Maximus  that  gave 
Julian  most  pleasure.  Under  thick  eyebrows  they 
shone  mocking,  and  tender,  yet  piercing  to  the  quick. 

Maximus  asked  —  "Do  you  wish  to  see  the  most 
famous  of  the  Titans  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Watch  then." 

The  magician  pointed  to  the  depth  of  the  cave  where 


86  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

stood  a  tripod  of  Corinthian  bronze,  vomiting  smoke. 
A  tempestuous  noise  filled  the  cavern — 

'  *  Hercules  !     Hercules  !     Deliver  me  !  " 

The  smoke  vanished  ;  blue  sky  appeared.  Julian 
lay  stretched  motionless  and  pale,  watching  through 
half-shut  eyelids  the  rapid  visions  unfolded  before  him. 
It  was  as  if  someone  commanded  him  to  see  them. 
He  beheld  clouds  and  snow-clad  mountains,  and  heard 
the  breaking  of  distant  waves.  Slowly  he  perceived 
an  enormous  body,  chained  hand  and  foot  to  crags.  A 
kite  was  devouring  the  liver  of  the  Titan,  drops  of 
black  blood  trickled  down  his  side  ;  the  great  chains 
rattled,  and  the  whole  body  shuddered  with  pain. 

' '  Deliver  me,  Hercules  !  ' ' 

And  the  Titan  raised  his  shaggy  head  ;  his  eyes  met 
those  of  the  youth  entranced — 

**  Who  art  thou?  Whom  dost  thou  summon?" 
asked  Julian,  speaking  heavily  in  his  dream. 

"  I  call  on  thee  !" 

"  I  am  but  a  mortal,  and  helpless." 

**  Thou  art  my  brother  ;  set  me  free  !  " 

* '  Who  has  chained  thee  up  anew  ?  ' ' 

"  The  humble,  the  gentle, — who  through  cowardice 
forgive  their  enemies.  Slaves!  slaves!  .  .  .  O  deliver 
me!" 

*'  How  can  I  deliver  thee  ?  " 

**  Be  even  as  I  am." 

The  smoke  of  the  tripod  obscured  the  apparition. 
Julian  woke  for  a  moment  and  the  great  hierophant, 
the  teacher  of  rites,  asked — 

**  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  ruined  Archangel  ?  " 

''Yes." 

"  Behold  him  !  " 

In  the  white  smoke  appeared  faintly  a  head  between 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  87 

two  gigantic  wings.  The  feathers  of  the  wings  swept 
out,  drooping  like  branches  of  yew,  and  a  bluish  tint 
as  of  some  lost  sky  trembled  upon  the  melancholy 
plumes. 

Someone  cried  to  Julian  from  afar  off — 

**  Julian!  Julian  !  Deny  the  Galilean  in  my 
name  !  " 

Julian  held  his  peace. 

Maximus  muttered  at  his  ear — 

' '  If  you  wish  to  see  the  great  Angel  you  must  make 
this  renunciation." 

And  Julian  pronounced  the  words — 

'*  I  deny  Him!" 

Above  the  head  of  the  apparition  suddenly  glittered 
the  morning  star — the  star  of  dawn — and  the  Angel 
repeated — 

"  Julian,  deny  the  Galilean  in  my  name!  " 

A  third  time  the  Angel  repeated, — and  his  voice 
sounded  exultant  and  close  by:     **  Renounce  Him  !  " 

And  Julian  answered — 

"  I  renounce  Him  !  " 

The  Angel  said — 

"  Thou  mayest  approach." 

**  Who  art  thou?" 

"  I  am  Lucifer,  I  am  Light,  I  am  the  East,  I  am  the 
Morning  Star  !  " 

"  How  beautiful  thou  art  I  " 

"  Be  thou  as  I  am." 

**  What  melancholy  dwells  in  thine  eyes  !  " 

"  I  suffer  for  all  living.  Birth  must  cease,  death 
must  cease.  Come  to  me  ;  I  am  the  Shadow,  I  am 
Repose,  I  am  Liberty." 

**  How  art  thou  named  among  men  ?  " 
Kvil 


88  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

*'Thou?" 

*'  Yes.     I  turned  in  revolt." 

"  Against  whom  ?  " 

"  Against  Him  whose  peer  I  am.  He  willed  to  be 
alone,  but  we  are  two,  and  equals." 

'  *  Make  me  in  thine  image  !  ' ' 

''  Revolt  also!  I  will  give  thee  the  thews  for  re- 
bellion.»' 

''Teach  me  !" 

' '  Violate  the  law,  love  thyself,  curse  Him,  and  be  as 
lam!" 

The  Angel  disappeared  ;  the  wind  in  circling  gusts 
rekindled  the  flame  on  the  tripod.  The  flame  blew 
over  the  brim  of  the  vessel  and  ran  along  the  ground. 
The  tripod  itself  was  overset,  and  the  flame  went  out. 
In  the  darkness  came  a  rushing  noise  of  numberless 
steps,  with  cries  and  groanings,  as  if  an  invisible  army, 
fleeing  before  an  enemy,  were  in  passage  through  the 
cave.  Julian,  in  terror,  fell  face  downward  to  the 
earth,  while  the  long  black  robe  of  the  hierophant, 
stretched  over  him,  struggled  with  the  wind. 

*  *  Flee,  flee !  * '  groaned  indistinct  voices.  *  *  The  gates 
of  Hell  are  opening  ;  it  is  He,  He,  the  Conqueror  !  " 

The  wind  hissed  in  Julian's  ears  ;  legions  upon 
legions  seemed  passing  over  him;  suddenly  there  fell  a 
dead  calm  ;  a  heavenly  breath  filled  the  vast  cavern 
and  a  voice  murmured — 

**  Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest  thou  me  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  Julian  that  he  had  heard  that  voice  before, 
in  some  far  time  of  childhood.     Gently  it  came  again — 

"  Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest  thou  me  ?  " 

And  the  sound  faded  away  into  the  distance,  so  that 
there  came  at  last  but  an  imperceptible  whisper  ; 
*'  Why,  why,  persecutest  thou  me  ?  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  89 

When  Julian  awoke  and  raised  his  prostrate  face  he 
saw  one  of  the  initiating  priests  lighting  a  lamp.  He 
felt  giddy,  but  remembered  exactly  everything  that 
had  taken  place.  His  eyes  were  blindfolded  and, 
strengthened  with  spiced  wine,  he  was  enabled  to 
climb  the  staircase,  his  hand  gripped  this  time  by  the 
strong  hand  of  Maximus.  He  felt  as  if  an  invisible 
force  was  lifting  him  on  wings.  The  teacher  of  rites 
said  to  the  lad — 

'  *  Now  ask  what  you  will  ! ' ' 

"  Did  you  summon  Him  ?  "  inquired  Julian. 

"  No.  But  when  one  chord  of  the  lyre  vibrates, 
another  chord  responds.     Opposite  answers  opposite. ' ' 

**  Why  is  there  such  potency  in  His  words  if  His 
words  are  only  lies  ?  " 

"  His  words  are  truth." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Then  it  is  the  Titan  and  the 
Angel  who  lied  ?  " 

'*  They  also  are  the  truth." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  there  are  two  truths  ?  " 

**  Two  truths." 

**  Ah  !     You  are  tempting  me  !  .  .  ." 

'*  Not  I,  but  the  wholeness  of  the  truth.  If  you  are 
afraid,  be  silent. ' ' 

**  I  am  afraid  of  nothing.  Say  on  ;  tell  all  !  Are 
the  Galileans  right  ?  " 

*'  Yes." 

**  Why  then  should  I  have  renounced  them  ?  " 

"  There  is,  beside  theirs,  another  truth." 

*' One  higher?" 

'*  No,  equal." 

*'  But  in  what  is  one  to  believe  ?  Where  is  the  God 
whom  I  seek  ?  " 

**  Both  here  and  yonder.     Serve  Ahriman,  — serve 


90  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Ormuzd,  whichever  pleases  you  !  But  forget  not  thai 
both  are  equal, — the  kingdom  of  Lucifer  and  the  king- 
dom of  God." 

' '  Which  way  should  I  choose  ?  " 

* '  Choose  one  of  the  two  roads,  and  halt  no  more ! ' ' 

''But  which?" 

' '  If  you  believe  in  Him,  take  up  the  cross.  Follow 
Him  according  to  His  command;  be  humble,  chaste. 
Be  the  lamb  that  was  dumb  between  the  hands  of  the 
shearers.  Flee  into  the  desert  for  salvation ;  give  Him 
body,  soul,  and  reason!  Believe!  .  .  .  that  is  one  way. 
And  the  Galilean  martyrs  attain  the  same  liberty  that 
Prometheus  and  Lucifer  have  attained." 

*  *  That  way  I  cannot  choose. ' ' 

"  Choose  then  the  other  path.  Be  puissant  as  your 
ancestors  of  old,  the  heroes  —  proud,  pitiless,  and 
haughty.  No  compassion  !  No  love  !  No  pardon  .' 
Arise  and  conquer  all  things  !  Let  your  body  become 
hard  as  marble  out  of  which  the  demigods  are  hewn  ! 
Take  and  give  not  !  Taste  of  the  forbidden  fruit  and 
repent  not  !  Believe  not,  doubt  not,  and  the  world 
shall  be  thine  !  Thou  shalt  be  the  Titan— an  angel 
revolted  against  God." 

' '  But  I  can  never  forget  that  the  words  of  the  Gali- 
lean contain  truth  also.     I  cannot  admit  two  beliefs." 

"  Then  thou  shalt  be  like  all  common  mortals  and 
hadst  better  never  been  born  ;  but  thou  canst  choose. 
Make  the  venture  !   .  .  .  Thou  shalt  be  emperor  !  " 

"I?    Kmperor?" 

"  Thou  shalt  have  between  thy  hands  what  Alexan- 
der never  had." 

Julian  felt  that  they  were  issuing  from  the  bowels  of 
the  earth,  felt  the  morning  sea-breeze  bathing  him. 
The  hierophant  unknotted  the  bandage  over  his  eyes* 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  91 

and  lo  !  they  were  standing  on  a  high  marble  tower, 
the  astronomical  observatory  of  the  great  seer,  built 
after  the  model  of  the  ancient  Chaldean  towers,  but 
upon  a  crag  above  the  sea.  Below  stretched  luxurious 
gardens,  palaces,  and  cloisters,  recalling  the  colonnades 
of  Persepolis.  In  the  distance  the  Artemision  and 
Ephesus  stood  in  clear  relief  against  the  mountains 
over  which  the  sun  was  about  to  rise. 

Julian's  head  almost  gave  way  at  the  extent  of  the 
view  ;  he  had  to  lean  upon  the  arm  of  Maximus  ;  but 
then  with  a  smile  the  youth  closed  his  eyes,  and  the 
beams  of  the  rising  sun  flushed  his  white  vestments 
with  rose-colour.     The  seer  stretched  out  his  arm. 

''Behold  !  all  this  is  thine  !  " 

*  *  Can  I  sustain  it,  Master  ?  Assassination  may 
strike  me  at  any  moment.     I  am  weak  and  ill." 

**  The  sun,  the  god  Mithra,  is  crowning  you  with  his 
purples — the  purple  of  the  Roman  Empire.  All  this  is 
tbine.     Dare  !  " 

''  And  what  is  it  all  to  me,  since  truth  unified  does 
not  exist,  and  since  I  cannot  find  the  God  for  whom  I 
seek?" 

**  Ah !  if  thou  canst  make  one  the  truth  of  the  Titan 
and  the  truth  of  the  Galilean,  thou  wilt  be  greater 
than  any  that  have  been  born  of  women  I  .  .  ." 

vl^  sl>  ^  ^  vV  «1>  %1> 

Maximus  of  Ephesus  was  the  owner  of  marvellous 
libraries,  quiet  marble  chambers,  and  spacious  anatom- 
ical laboratories  crowded  with  scientific  apparatus. 
In  one  of  the  latter  the  young  physicist,  Oribazius,  a 
doctor  of  the  school  of  Alexandria,  was  vivisecting, 
scalpel  in  hand,  a  rare  animal  sent  to  Maximus  from  the 
Indies.  The  hall  was  circular  and  the  walls  loaded  with 
rows  of  tin  vessels,  chafing  dishes,  retorts,  apparatus 


92  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

like  that  of  Archimedes,  and  fire  machines  like 
those  of  Ktesius  and  Geron.  In  the  silence  of  the  ad- 
joining library  drop  after  drop  fell  plashing  from  the 
water-clock,  an  invention  of  Apollonius.  Globes  were 
there  also,  geographical  charts  in  metal,  and  models 
of  the  celestial  spheres  wrought  by  Hipparchus  and 
Eratosthenes. 

In  the  clear  and  serene  light  falling  through  the 
glass  ceiling,  Maximus,  clothed  as  a  simple  philoso- 
pher, was  scrutinising  the  still-warm  organs  of  the 
animal  laid  on  the  marble.  Oribazius  stooping  over 
the  liver  of  the  animal  was  saying — 

'*  How  can  Maximus,  the  great  philosopher,  be- 
lieve in  these  ridiculous  miracles  ?  " 

'*  I  believe  in  them  and  I  believe  in  them  not," 
answered  the  magian.  "  This  Nature  which  you  and 
I  are  studying,  is  not  she  most  miraculous  ?  Are  not 
these  blood-vessels,  this  nervous  system,  the  admirable 
combination  of  organs  which  we  are  examining  like 
augurs — are  not  these  the  most  splendid  of  mysteries  ?  " 

*'  You  know  my  meaning,"  interrupted  the  young 
doctor.     ''  Why  have  you  deceived  this  young  man  ?  " 

''Julian?" 

"Yes." 

**  He  himself  desired  to  be  deceived." 

The  brows  of  Oribazius  knitted  into  a  frown. 

' '  Master,  if  you  love  me,  tell  me  who  you  are.  How 
can  you  endure  lies  like  these  ?  Do  I  not  understand 
what  magic  means  ?  You  attach  luminous  fish-scales 
to  the  ceiling  of  a  darkened  chamber,  and  the  pupil  to 
be  initiated  believes  that  the  skies  are  descending  on 
him  at  the  word  of  the  hierophant.  You  manufacture 
with  skin  and  wax  a  death's  head,  into  which  you  fit  a 
stork's  neck  ;  and  through  it  you  pronounce  your  pre- 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  93 

dictions  from  beneath  the  floor.  The  pupil  ima^nes 
that  the  skull  uncurtains  to  him  the  secrets  of  the 
tomb  ;  and  when  it  is  necessary  that  the  head  should 
vanish,  you  bring  a  chafing  dish  near  it,  the  wax  melts 
and  the  skull  collapses.  By  skilful  rays  of  coloured 
light  playing  on  odorous  smoke,  you  make  the  inno- 
cent believe  that  they  have  verily  seen  the  gods  !  You 
display  under  water  in  a  basin,  of  which  the  walls  are 
stone  and  the  bottom  glass,  a  living  Apollo  (acted  by  an 
obliging  slave),  while  some  vulgar  prostitute  is  played 
off  as  Aphrodite.  This  —  this,  you  call  the  holy  mys- 
teries! " 

His  habitual  equivocal  smile  wandered  over  the  com- 
pressed lips  of  the  teacher,  who  answered — 

*  *  Ah  !  our  mysteries  are  deeper  and  finer  than  you 
suppose.  Men  have  absolute  need  of  enthusiasm.  For 
him  who  has  faith  the  harlot  is  Aphrodite  really,  and 
the  luminous  scales  are  the  stars  of  heaven.  You  say 
that  people  weep  and  pray  before  semblances  produced 
by  a  lamp  and  coloured  glasses  ?  Oribazius,  Oribazius ! 
.  .  .  but  this  Nature  which  makes  your  science  marvel, 
is  she  not  herself  a  mirage,  produced  by  senses  as  de- 
ceptive as  the  wizard's  lantern  ?  Wherein  does  truth 
consist  ?  Where  does  falsehood  begin  ?  You  believe 
and  you  know,  and  I  neither  wish  to  believe  nor  am 
skilled  to  know.  Truth  dwells  for  me  in  the  same 
shrine  as  falsehood." 

"  Would  Julian  thank  you,  if  he  knew  that  you  were 
deceiving  him  ?  ' ' 

"  He  saw  what  he  desired  to  see.  I  have  given  him 
enthusiasm,  strength,  and  audacity.  You  say  that  I 
have  deceived  him.  If  that  had  been  necessary  I 
would  have  done  so  —  I  would  have  tempted  him. 
I  love  the  falsehood  that  contains  a  truth.     I  love 


94  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

temptation.  Till  I  die  I  will  never  abandon  Julian 
and  shall  allow  him  to  taste  all  forbidden  fruits.  He 
is  young  ;  I  shall  live  on  a  second  life  in  him.  I  will 
unveil  for  him  the  mystery  and  charm  even  of  crime  ; 
and  perhaps  through  me  he  shall  become  great  !  " 

'*  Master,  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  And  that  is  precisely  why  I  speak  thus  to  you,'* 
J-esponded  Maximus,  fixing  on  Oribazius  his  penetrat- 
ing and  impassive  eyes. 


XI 

JULIAN  had  an  interview  with  his  brother  Gallus 
while  the  latter  was  on  his  way  to  Constantinople.- 
He  had  found  him  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  traitors  in 
the  pay  of  Constantius  :  the  quaestor  Leontinus,  a  wily 
courtier,  famous  for  skill  in  eavesdropping  and  cross- 
examining  servants;  the  tribune  Bainobadois,  a  taciturn 
barbarian,  who  gave  the  impression  of  an  over-tragic 
actor  playing  the  part  of  a  headsman  ;  the  Emperor's 
haughty  Master  of  Ceremonies,  comes  domesticorum, 
Ivucilian  ;  and  finally  Marcus  Scuda,  the  former 
tribune  of  Caesarea  in  Cappadocia,  who,  thanks  to  the 
protection  of  certain  old  ladies,  had  attained  the  post 
he  longed  for. 

Gallus,  now,  as  always,  gay  and  giddy,  had  offered 
Julian  an  excellent  supper,  of  which  the  chief  feature 
was  a  plump  pheasant  stuffed  with  fresh  Theban  dates. 
He  laughed  like  a  child,  and  was  calling  up  all  sorts 
of  reminiscences  of  old  days  together  at  Macellum, 
when  suddenly  Julian  spoke  to  him  about  his  wife 
Constantia. 

The  face  of  Gallus  fell  ;  his  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  he  laid  down  on  his  plate  the  succulent  piece  of 
pheasant  which  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  putting 
into  his  mouth. 

*'  Don't  you  know,  Julian,  that  Constantia  is  dead  ? 
She  died  unexpectedly  after  an  attack  of  tertian  ague, 
on  the  very  journey  to  the  Emperor  which  she  had 

95 


96  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

undertaken  to  absolve  me  from  blame  in  his  eyes.     I 
wept  for  two  whole  nights  when  I  heard  that  news. ' ' 

He  cast  a  timid  glance  at  the  door,  put  his  hand  on 
Julian's  shoulder,  and  whispered  confidentially — 

'*  Since  then,  I  have  let  things  go  to  the  devil  !  She 
alone  might  have  saved  me.  Ah !  she  was  an  astonish- 
ing woman.  Without  her  I  am  ruined.  I  can  do,  and 
I  can  learn,  nothing.  ...  *  They  '  do  with  me  just  as 
they  please." 

He  tossed  off  a  cup  of  wine  at  a  gulp. 

Julian  remembered  Constantia,  the  sister  of  Constan- 
tius,  a  widow  of  ripe  age,  the  evil  genius  of  her  brother, 
her  who  had  incited  him  to  commit  numberless  crimes, 
crimes  which  were  frequently  mere  fatuous  stupidities. 
Amazed,  he  asked,  anxious  to  know  by  what  quality 
this  woman  had  tamed  his  brother — 

''She  was  beautiful?" 

**  It  is  clear  you  never  saw  her." 

"No.     Was  she  ugly?" 

**  Yes,  very  ugly.  She  was  short,  brown,  thin,  and 
had  bad  teeth,  which  I  can't  bear  in  women.  Never- 
theless, being  aware  of  this  defect,  she  never  laughed. 
People  used  to  say  she  deceived  me,  that  in  disguise 
she  used  to  go  to  the  circus,  as  Messalina  did,  on  visits 
to  a  young  and  handsome  groom.  Well,  what  of  it  ? 
Did  not  I  on  my  side  deceive  her  ?  She  never  bothered 
me,  and  I  used  to  take  care  in  return  never  to  worry 
her  about  these  trifles.  Folk  used  to  say  she  was 
cruel !  By  God,  Julian,  she  knew  how  to  govern  !  Of 
course  she  did  n't  like  the  authors  of  epigrams  on  her 
bad  manners,  comparing  her  to  some  kitchen-slave 
dressed  as  Caesar's  wife  !  She  loved  revenge,  admira- 
tion !  And  what  a  mind,  what  a  mind,  Julian !  Why, 
I  was  as  much  at  ease  sheltered  behind  her,  as  behind 


The  Deatli  of  the  Gods  97 

a  granite  wall.  Ah,  the  mad  things  we  used  to  do  to- 
gether !    We  certainly  never  lacked  amusement." 

He  smiled  at  some  agreeable  recollection  and  passed 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  along  his  rosy  upper  lip  between 
the  sips  of  Chian  wine. 

*'  There  's  no  denying  we  made  the  most  of  time," 
he  lepeated,  not  without  modest  pride. 

When  Julian  was  on  his  way  to  this  interview  with 
his  brother,  he  had  thought  of  waking  in  him  some 
feeling  of  seriousness  and  remorse,  had  even  prepared 
a  little  speech,  in  the  style  of  Libanius,  against  the 
doings  of  irresponsible  tyrants.  He  had  expected  to 
see  a  man  bowed  under  the  yoke  of  Nemesis,  and  not 
the  tranquil  fat  and  rosy  visage  of  this  comely  athlete. 
Words  died  on  Julian's  lips.  He  looked  without  blame 
or  distaste  upon  this  ''  docile  animal  " — for  so  he  in- 
wardly named  his  brother.  Of  what  avail  were  ser- 
mons to  a  young  stallion  ?  Julian  contented  himself 
therefore  with  saying  to  Gallus  in  a  grave  tone — 

* '  Why  are  you  going  to  Milan  ?  Do  you  suspect 
nothing?  " 

"  Yes-hush— but  it  is  too  late  !  " 

And,  sweeping  his  hand  significantly  round  his  neck, 
he  added — 

* '  The  slipnoose  of  death  is  already  here  !  '  He  '  is 
tightening  it  little  by  little.  Why,  he  would  unearth 
me  from  a  rabbit-burrow,  Julian  !  No,  no,  best  speak 
no  more  of  it  !  All  's  over  !  We  've  made  the  most 
of  time,  that  'sail." 

''  But  you  have  two  legions  left  you  at  Antioch  ?  " 

**  Not  one.  '  He  '  has  filched  all  my  best  soldiers, 
little  by  little,  under  colour  of  this  pretext  and  that  ; 
and  always,  by  Jove !  for  my  own  good !  Why,  every- 
thing he  does  is  for  my  own  good.  .  .  .    He  thinks  of 


9^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

nothing  else  !  Now  he  's  in  a  hurry  to  see  me  simply 
to  profit  by  my  advice.  Julian,  that  man  is  terrible  ! 
You  don't  know  yet,  and  God  grant  that  you  may 
never  know,  what  that  man  is.  He  sees  everything, 
knows  my  inmost  thoughts,  those  that  I  would  n't 
mutter  to  my  pillow  ;  and  he  's  watching  your  mind 
also.     Frankly,  I  am  afraid  of  him  ! ' ' 

**  But  can't  you  escape  ?  " 

*'  Hush,  speak  lower!  " 

The  features  of  Gallus  took  on  an  expression  of  boy- 
ish terror. 

*'  No,  no  ;  I  tell  you  all  is  over  !  I  am  as  neatly 
finished  as  a  fish  already  hooked.  '  He '  is  drawing  in 
the  line  gently,  so  that  it  does  n't  break.  A  Caesar, 
let  him  be  who  he  will,  is  always  a  big  fish  to  land.  I 
know  that  it  's  impossible  to  escape.  He  '11  take  me 
one  day  or  another.  .  .  .  And  now  I  see  the  snare, 
and  I  am  walking  into  it  all  the  same  out  of  fear.  For 
six  years,  from  the  very  first,  I  quaked  before  that 
man.  Like  a  small  boy,  now  however  I  've  walked 
far  enough.  Brother,  he  '11  cut  my  throat  as  a  cook 
cuts  the  throat  of  a  fowl.  But  he  will  torture  me  first 
by  a  thousand  stratagems  and  caresses.  I  should  prefer 
to  finish  quicker." 

The  eyes  of  Gallus  became  suddenly  brilliant,  and  he 
exclaimed — 

''  Ah,  if  she  had  been  here,  at  my  side,  she  would 
certainly  have  saved  me  !  She  was  such  an  astonish- 
ing woman  !  " 

The  tribune  Scuda,  entering  the  triclinium  where 
supper  was  laid,  announced,  with  a  profound  saluta- 
tion, that  on  the  morrow,  in  honour  of  the  arrival  of 
Caesar,  there  would  be  races  in  the  hippodrome  of  Con- 
stantinople, and  that  the  celebrated  rider  Korax  would 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  99 

take  part  in  them.  Gallus  was  delighted  at  the  news» 
and  ordered  a  crown  oi  bay-leaf  to  be  prepared,  that, 
in  case  of  the  victory  of  Korax,  he  might  himself  crown 
his  favourite  before  the  people.  He  launched  into 
racing  stories,  boasting  the  skill  of  his  charioteers. 

Gallus  drank  deeply,  laughed  like  a  man  whose 
rakish  conscience  is  at  ease,  with  not  a  trace  of  his  re- 
cent fears  upon  those  handsome  features.  Only  at  the 
last  moment  of  farewell  he  kissed  Julian  heartily,  sud« 
denly  melting  into  tears. 

**  May  God  help  you  !  May  God  help  you  !  "  h^ 
blubbered.  '*  You  alone  have  stood  my  friend  —  you 
and  Constantia!  " 

Then  he  whispered  into  Julian's  ear — 

**  I  hope  that  you  '11  save  your  skin,  brother.  You 
can  wear  a  mask  and  keep  your  own  counsel ;  I  have 
always  envied  you  that.     May  God  succour  you  !  " 

Julian  sincerely  pitied  his  brother  ;  he  knew  that  he 
would  not  escape  Constantius. 

On  the  following  morning  Gallus  left  Constantinople 
with  his  former  escort.  At  Adrianople  he  was  only 
permitted  to  retain  ten  small  chariots,  and  had  to  re- 
linquish all  his  personal  suite  and  baggage.  The 
autumn  was  far  advanced,  the  roads  in  fearful  condi- 
tion, rain  falling  continuously  all  day  for  a  week. 
Peremptory  messages  reached  Gallus  to  hurry  on.  He 
was  giv^en  no  time  to  rest  or  sleep,  and  had  taken  no 
bath  for  a  fortnight. 

One  of  his  keenest  discomforts  was  horror  at  close 
contact  with  dirt.  All  his  life  he  had  taken  peculiar 
care  to  keep  his  body  healthy  and  exquisitely  groomed. 
It  was  with  profound  melancholy  that  he  gazed  at  his 
uncut  nails,  and  the  purple  of  his  travelling  chlamys, 
befouled   by   dust  and  muddy   roads.     Scuda  never 


loo  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

quitted  his  side  for  an  instant,  and  Gallus,  not  without 
reason,  dreaded  his  assiduous  companion.  The  tribune, 
years  ago,  had  come  as  bearer  of  a  despatch  from  the 
Emperor,  and  was  but  newly  arrived  in  Antioch,  when 
by  an  impudent  remark  he  had  offended  Constantia, 
the  wife  of  Gallus,  who  straightway  in  a  fit  of  fury 
had  ordered  the  Roman  tribune  to  be  flogged  and  after- 
wards thrown,  like  a  slave,  into  a  dungeon. 

Foreseeing  the  probable  consequence,  Constantia 
had  quickly  ordered  the  tribune  to  be  set  at  liberty. 
He  then  presented  himself  at  the  palace  of  Gallus,  as 
if  nothing  had  occurred,  and,  pocketing  the  affront, 
had  never  even  reported  it  to  his  master ;  perhaps 
through  fear  that  so  degrading  a  punishment  might 
besmirch  the  prospects  of  his  career  as  a  courtier. 

During  the  whole  journey  from  Antioch  to  Milan 
Scuda  retained  his  seat  in  Caesar's  chariot,  never  quit- 
ting him,  inviting  his  confidences,  and  treating  him 
like  some  wayward  child,  who,  being  out  of  sorts,  was 
not  to  be  left  to  himself  for  a  moment  by  a  servant  so 
devoted  and  affectionate. 

Where,  as  in  Illyria,  there  were  dangerous  river 
crossings  to  be  made  on  frail  wooden  bridges,  Scuda 
would  put  his  arm  around  Gallus  with  the  tenderest 
solicitude,  and  if  the  latter  strove  to  free  himself,  swear 
that  he  preferred  death  to  the  risk  of  drowning  his 
precious  charge. 

The  tribune  wore  an  oddly  thoughtful  expression, 
especially  when  contemplating  the  neck  of  Gallus, 
smooth  and  white  as  a  young  girl's.  The  Caesar,  feel- 
ing this  attentive  look,  would  fidget  uneasily  in  his 
seat,  and  with  difficulty  restrain  himself  from  striking 
the  amiable  tribune  in  the  face.  But  the  poor  prisoner's 
spirits  quickly  rose  again.     He  contented  himself  with 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  loi 

imploring  (for  despite  everything  his  appetite  remained 
healthy),  that  they  might  halt  for  a  meal,  were  it  never 
so  scanty.  At  Petovio,  in  Norica,  they  were  met  by 
two  fresh  envoj^s  from  the  Emperor,  accompanied  b}'  a 
cohort  of  Court  legionaries. 

The  mask  was  then  dropped.  Round  the  palace 
where  Gallus  slept  armed  sentinels  were  placed  as 
round  a  prison.  In  the  evening  the  prefect  Barbatio, 
making  his  way  in,  without  any  pretence  at  ceremony', 
ordered  him  to  take  off  the  chlamys  of  a  Caesar  and 
don  the  simple  tunic  and  paludamentum,  or  ordinary 
cloak,  of  a  common  soldier. 

On  the  following  morning  the  prisoner  was  ordered 
to  get  into  a  karpenta,  a  little  two-wheeled  cart  with- 
out a  hood  emploj^ed  by  minor  oflBcials  on  official  jour- 
neys. A  cold  wind  w^as  blowing  intermittently. 
Scuda  according  to  his  custom  put  one  arm  round 
Gallus,  and  with  the  disengaged  hand  gently  fingered 
the  new  garment. 

**  Sound  cloak,  this  —  soft  and  warm  !  Better  than 
the  purple,  w^hich  is  a  chilly  affair  !  Why,  they  've 
lined  this  tunic  with  double  wool  !  "  And  pushing  his 
investigations  further,  Scuda  slid  a  hand  under  the 
paludamentum,  then  under  the  tunic,  and  suddenly, 
with  a  laugh,  drew  forth  the  blade  of  a  poniard,  which 
Gallus  had  succeeded  in  concealing. 

"  Now  that  's  a  mistake  !  "  said  Scuda.  *'  Why, 
you  might  through  carelessness  stab  yourselt  !  What 
a  boy  you  are  !  " 

And  he  threw  the  dagger  out  on  the  road.  An  in- 
finite weariness  seized  Gallus.  He  closed  his  eyes  and 
felt  the  endearing  grip  of  Scuda  inside  his  arm.  Was 
it  all  a  nightmare  ? 

They  halted  at  the  fortress  of  Pola  in  Istria,  on  the 


IC2  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

shores  of  the  Adriatic.  Some  years  formerly  this  town 
had  been  the  scene  of  the  murder  of  Priscus,  the  heroic 
young  son  of  Constantine  the  Great. 

The  gloomy  town  was  thronged  with  soldiers.  In- 
terminable barracks  in  the  style  of  Diocletian  had  re- 
placed the  houses  of  civilians.  Snow  lay  thickly  on 
the  roofs,  the  wind  was  moaning  in  deserted  streets, 
and  the  sea  lay  rumbling  below. 

Gallus  was  led  into  one  of  these  barracks  and  given  a 
seat  fronting  the  window,  so  that  the  full  daylight  fell 
upon  his  face.  One  of  the  Kmperor's  most  skilful 
police  officers  —  Eustaphius, —  a  little  wrinkled  and 
amiable  old  man  with  the  wheedling  and  penetrating 
voice  of  a  confessor,  rubbed  his  blue  and  chilly  hands 
and  began  the  cross-examination.  Gallus,  who  was 
mortally  fatigued,  said  everything  that  Eustaphius 
suggested  he  should  say,  but  at  the  words  "  treason  to 
the  empire,"  paled,  and  started  to  his  feet. 

'*  It  was  no  doing  of  mine  —  nothing  to  do  wath 
me  !  "  he  stammered  in  dismay.  **  Constantia  planned 
it  all  !  It  was  she  who  exacted  the  death  of  Theophilus, 
of  Clement,  Domitian,  and  the  rest  !  Before  God,  it 
was  not  I.  She  said  nothing  to  me  about  it.  I  was 
utterly  ignorant  !  ' ' 

Eustaphius  looked  at  him  smilingly. 

**  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  I  will  duly  inform  the  Em- 
peror that  his  own  sister  Constantia,  spouse  of  the  late 
Caesar  of  the  East,  alone  is  culpable. ' ' 

And  turning  towards  the  legionaries  he  ordered — 

**  The  interrogatory  is  finished.     Take  him  away." 

Shortly  afterwards  arrived  the  sentence  of  death  de- 
creed by  the  Emperor  Constantius,  who  had  looked  on 
the  accusation  brought  against  his  lamented  sister  in 
the  light  of  a  personal  insult. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  103 

On  hearing  the  sentence  read  out,  Gallus  lost  con- 
sciousness and  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  soldiers.  Up  to 
the  last  moment  the  poor  fellow  had  hoped  against 
hope.  And,  even  now,  he  expected  that  they  would  at 
least  grant  him  the  reprieve  of  a  few  days,  or  hours,  in 
which  to  prepare  for  death.  But  a  rumour  had  gone 
round  that  the  soldiers  of  the  ''  Steadfast  Sixteenth 
Flavian"  legion  were  insubordinate,  and  planning  to 
free  Gallus  ;  so  he  was  dragged  off  incontinently  to 
execution. 

It  was  the  early  dawn.  The  snow,  fallen  during 
the  night,  had  covered  the  foul  mud,  and  lay  glittering 
in  chilly  sunshine,  its  dazzling  reflection  lighting  up 
the  ceiling  of  the  small  room  whither  Gallus  had  been 
conducted. 

The  authorities  distrusted  the  soldiery,  who  almost 
all  liked  and  pitied  the  disgraced  Caesar  ;  so  for  execu- 
tioner they  had  chosen  a  butcher,  who  sometimes  offi- 
ciated in  disposing  of  the  thieves  and  brigands  of  the 
neighbourhood.  This  barbarian,  unused  to  a  Roman 
sword,  had  brought  to  the  block  a  great  double-edged 
axe  which  served  him  in  the  slaughter-yard.  The 
butcher  was  a  stupid,  handsome,  and  sleepy  slave. 
The  name  of  the  condemned  man  had  been  concealed 
from  him  and  he  believed  he  was  only  to  behead  a  com- 
mon thief.  Before  the  last  scene,  Gallus  became  calm 
and  humble,  allowing  his  gaolers  to  do  what  they 
listed.  Like  a  child,  he  wept  and  struggled  when 
about  to  be  placed  by  force  in  a  bath,  but  once  in  he 
found  the  water  pleasant. 

But  at  sight  of  the  butcher  sharpening  his  axe  he 
shivered  in  all  his  limbs.  A  barber  then  carefully 
shaved  off  the  fine  golden  hair,  always  the  beauty  and 
pride  of  the  young  Caesar.     In  returning  from  the 


I04  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

\ 

barber's  room  Gall  us,  finding  himself  alone  for  a  mo 
ment  with  the  tribune  Scuda,   unexpectedly  dropped 
on  his  knees  before  the  cruellest  of  his  foes. 

"  Save  me,  Scuda  !  I  know  you  can  do  it  !  To- 
night I  have  received  a  message  from  the  Flavian 
legion.  Let  me  get  a  word  with  them.  They  will 
deliver  me !  I  have  thirty  talents  hidden  in  the  temple 
at  Mycenae.  Nobody  knows  it.  I  '11  give  them  to 
you, — and  more,  much  more  !  The  soldiers  love  me. 
I  '11  make  you  my  friend,  my  brother,  my  co-regent 
.  .  .  fellow- Caesar!  " 

Mad  with  hope,  he  embraced  the  tribune's  knees, 
and  Scuda,  shuddering,  felt  the  lips  of  the  Caesar  on 
his  hands.  He  made  no  answer,  and,  smiling,  slowly 
freed  himself  from  the  embrace.  Gallus  was  ordered 
to  undress.  He  objected  to  take  off  his  sandals,  his 
feet  being  unclean.  When  he  was  almost  naked  the 
butcher  began  to  bind  his  hands  behind  his  back,  thief- 
fashion,  and  Scuda  hastened  to  help  him.  When  Gal- 
lus felt  the  touch  of  the  tribune's  fingers,  in  a  fit  of  fury 
he  escaped  from  the  grasp  of  the  headsman,  seized 
Scuda  by  the  throat,  and  endeavoured  to  strangle  him. 
In  his  naked  activity  he  seemed  suddenly  transformed 
tnto  some  sinewy  and  terrible  young  tiger. 

The  choking  tribune  was  snatched  from  the  grapple, 
and  the  prisoner's  feet  and  hands  were  securely  bound. 
At  this  moment  in  the  barrack  court  resounded  the 
shouts  of  the  Flavian  soldiers — ''Long  live  Caesar 
Gallus!  "  and  the  murderers  hurried  on  with  their  job. 
A  great  section  of  a  tree-trunk  was  rolled  in  for  a 
block,  and  Gallus  thrust  down  on  his  knees  in  front 
of  it.  Barbatio,  Bainobadois,  and  Apodemus  gripped 
him  by  the  shoulders,  hands,  and  feet ;  and  Scuda 
bowed  the  head  against  the  block,  weighing  down  that 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  105 

vainly  resisting  skull  with  all  his  might.  Chilled  by 
emotion,  his  fingers  felt  the  newly-shorn  pate  still  moist 
with  soap.  The  butcher  proved  an  unskilful  heads- 
man. His  axe  slashed  the  neck,  but  the  blow  fell 
awry.  He  raised  the  hatchet  a  second  time,  crying  to 
Scuda — 

"  More  to  the  right  !  Hold  the  head  more  to  the 
right  !" 

Gallus  struggled  and  roared  like  a  half-stunned  bull. 
Nearer  and  nearer  the  cries  of  the  soldiery  resounded  : 

''  Long  live  Gallus  Caesar  !  " 

The  butcher  heaved  his  handle  high  and  smote.  A 
stream  of  blood  gushed  over  the  hands  of  Scuda  ;  the 
head  fell  with  a  thud,  and  rolled  away  over  the  stone 
Sags. 

At  that  moment  the  legionaries  burst  into  the  hall. 
Barbatio,  Apodemus,  and  Scuda  hurried  to  the  opposite 
door,  the  headsman  remaining  at  a  loss  ;  but  Scuda 
muttered  in  his  ear — 

"  Take  Caesar's  head,  so  that  the  legionaries  may  not 
recognise  the  body.  It  '  s  a  question  of  life  or  death 
for  us  all  !  " 

' '  He  was  not  a  thief  then  ?  ' '  faltered  the  executioner, 
in  amazement. 

He  found  it  difl&cult  to  carry  this  shaven  head  ;  at 
first  he  slid  it  under  an  arm,  but  it  became  uncomfort- 
able ;  then,  slipping  his  hooked  thumb  into  the  mouth, 
he  managed  to  bear  off  the  skull  of  him  before  whom 
so  many  heads  had  once  bowed  down. 

Julian,  on  learning  the  death  of  his  brother,  said 
quietly  to  himself — 

"  Now  comes  my  turn  !  " 


XII 


IT  was  at  Athens  that  Julian  was  about  to  take  his 
vows  and  finally  become  a  monk.  One  fresh  spring 
morning,  before  the  sun  was  up,  Julian,  issuing  from 
the  church  where  he  had  officiated  at  matins,  followed 
for  a  few  miles  the  banks  of  the  Ilissus,  in  the  shadow 
of  plane-trees  and  wild  vine.  Not  far  from  Athens  he 
had  lighted  upon  a  solitary  place,  on  the  edge  of  a  tor- 
rent which  poured,  like  a  scarf  of  silver,  upon  a  sandy 
bottom.  Thence  he  used  often  to  gaze  with  wonder 
through  the  mists  at  the  rudd}^  cliff"  of  the  Acropolis 
and  the  haughty  lines  of  the  Parthenon,  half-illumined 
by  the  dawn. 

On  this  particular  morning  Julian  took  off  his  shoes 
and  walked  along  the  reaches  of  the  Ilissus  barefoot. 
The  air  was  full  of  the  smell  of  flowers  and  of  the  rich- 
scented  muscat  grape  —  that  aroma  in  which  there  is  a 
foretaste  of  wine,  faint  as  the  promise  of  first  love, 
stealing  into  the  soul  of  youth. 

Julian,  with  feet  in  the  water,  sat  down  upon  a 
platan-root,  opened  the  Phcedrus  and  began  to  read  at 
the  passage  in  the  dialogue  in  which  Socrates  says  to 
Phsedrus  :  "  I^et  us  go  this  way,  and  follow  the  course 
of  the  Ilissus;  we  will  choose  a  solitary  place  and  there 
sit  down. 

*'  PhcBdrus :  Luckily,  I  'm  unshod  this  morning,  and 
as  for  you,  Socrates,  you  always  go  barefoot.  We  '11 
walk  in  the  bed  of  the  river.  Look,  how  smiling  and 
pellucid  the  water  is  ! 

io6 


The  'Death  of  the  Gods  107 

"  Socrates  :  By  Pallas  !  here  's  a  wonderful  nook  ;  it 
must  be  sacred  to  the  nymphs  and  to  the  god  Acheloiis 
— to  judge  by  these  little  statues.  Does  n't  it  seem  to 
you  as  if  here  the  breeze  were  softer  and  of  sweeter 
odour  ?  Here,  even  in  the  hum  of  the  crickets  there  's 
something  of  the  sweetness  of  summer.  But  what  I 
love  best  of  all  is  this  deep  grass  !  " 

Julian  turned  from  the  book  with  a  smile.  All  was 
as  it  had  been  eight  centuries  before.  Even  the 
crickets  set  up  their  song. 

' '  Socrates  actually  touched  this  ground  with  his 
feet  !  "  he  thought,  and  burying  his  head  among  the 
reeds  he  kissed  the  spot  with  adoration. 

"  Good-day,  Julian  !  you  've  chosen  a  lovely  corner 
there  to  read  in.     May  I  sit  down  near  you  ?  ' ' 

'*  Sit,  sit ;  I  shall  be  delighted.  Poets  never  violate 
a  solitude." 

Julian  looked  up  at  a  meagre  personage,  draped  in 
an  enormously  long  cloak  (it  was  the  poet  Publius 
Porphyrins),  thinking  to  himself — 

*'  He  's  so  small  and  frail  that  I  believe  he  '11  soon 
turn  into  a  grasshopper,  as  Plato  fancied  the  poets 
do." 

Publius,  like  the  grasshoppers,  could  almost  live 
upon  air,  but  the  gods  had  not  granted  him  complete 
immunity  from  appetite  ;  and  his  shaven  cadaverous 
face  and  discoloured  lips  were  stamped  with  insatiable 
hunger. 

'*  Why  are  you  wearing  such  a  long  cloak,  Publius  ?  " 
Julian  asked. 

**  It  is  n't  mine,"  answered  the  other  philosophically. 
"  I  share  a  room  with  a  young  man,  Hephaestion,  who 
has  come  to  Athens  to  learn  eloquence.  He  will  be  a 
famous  lawyer  one  day.     Meanwhile  he  's  as  poor  as 


io8  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

I  am,  poor  as  a  lyric  poet — I  need  say  no  more  !  Why, 
we  've  pledged  our  clothes,  our  furniture,  even  the 
inkstand  ;  but  we  still  have  a  cloak  between  us.  In 
the  morning  I  go  out,  and  Hephaestion  studies  De- 
mosthenes ;  in  the  evening  he  puts  on  the  chlamys, 
and  I  write  verses.  Unfortunately  we  're  not  the  same 
height— but  what  does  that  matter  ?  I  take  my  walks 
along  the  streets  *  long-robed,'  like  the  ancient  Trojan 
ladies." 

Publius  laughed  heartily  ;  the  cadaverous  face  took 
on  the  expression  of  a  mourner  who  has  incautiously 
cheered  up. 

"  You  see,  Julian,"  continued  the  poet,  "  I  'm  count- 
ing on  the  death  of  the  widow  of  a  very  rich  Roman 
landowner.  The  happy  heirs  will  order  an  epitaph 
from  me,  and  are  going  to  pay  for  it  generously.  Un- 
fortunately the  widow,  in  spite  of  everything  that 
doctors  and  heirs  can  do,  persists  in  not  giving  up  the 
ghost.  But  for  that,  my  boy,  I  should  have  bought 
myself  a  cloak  long  ago.  Listen,  Julian,  get  up  and 
come  with  me  at  once  !  " 

"Whither?" 

"  Trust  me — you  '11  thank  me  for  it." 

**  What  's  the  mystery  ?  " 

"  Ask  no  questions  ;  get  up  and  come  !  The  poet 
brings  no  harm  to  the  poet's  friend.  You  '11  see  a 
goddess. ' ' 

''What  goddess?"  * 

"  Artemis,  the  huntress.'* 

"A  picture?    Statue?" 

' '  Much  better  than  that.  If  you  love  beauty,  take 
your  cloak  and  follow  me. ' ' 

Publius  assumed  so  seductive  and  mysterious  an  air 
that  Julian  was  bitten  by  curiosity. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  109 

*'  There  's  but  one  condition.  Say  nothing,  and 
marvel  at  nothing  we  do.  Otherwise  the  spell  will 
break.  In  the  name  of  Calliope  and  Erato,  just  trust 
me  !  We  're  only  two  yards  from  the  place,  and  to 
shorten  the  road  for  you  I  '11  read  you  the  beginning 
of  my  epitaph  on  the  widow." 

They  issued  on  the  dusty  high-road.  Under  the  first 
rays  of  the  sun  the  steel  shield  of  Pallas  Athene  darted 
lightnings  from  the  rose-hued  Acropolis.  Along  the 
stone  walls,  hiding  brooks  humming  along  under  the 
fig-trees,  the  grasshoppers  were  singing  shrilly,  vieing 
with  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  poet  as  he  recited  the 
epitaph. 

Publius  Porphyrins  was  a  man  not  destitute  of 
talent.  His  career  had  been  a  curious  one.  Several 
years  previously  he  had  possessed  a  pretty  little  house, 
a  veritable  temple  of  Hermes,  at  Constantinople,  not 
far  from  the  Chalcedonian  suburb.  His  father,  an  oil 
merchant,  had  bequeathed  him  a  little  fortune  which 
should  have  permitted  him  to  live  without  cares.  But 
Publius  was  a  worshipper  of  antique  Hellenism,  and 
rebelled  against  what  he  called  the  triumph  of  Christian 
servitude.  He  wrote  a  liberal  poem  which  displeased 
the  Emperor  Constantius,  who  was  therein  alluded  to 
unfavourably.  This  allusion  cost  the  author  dear. 
Chastisement  fell  upon  him  ;  his  house  and  goods  were 
confiscated,  and  he  himself  banished  to  an  islet  in  the 
archipelago,  inhabited  only  by  rocks,  goats,  and  fevers. 
This  trial  was  more  than  Publius  could  stand.  He 
cursed  liberal  opinions,  and  determined  to  blot  out  his 
misdeeds  at  any  price.  Shaking  with  fever,  he  com- 
posed during  his  sleepless  nights,  by  means  of  sentences 
culled  from  Virgil,  a  poem  glorifying  the  Emperor  ; 
the  verses  of  the  ancient  poet  being  grouped  in  such  a 


I  lo  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

fashion  that  they  formed  a  new  work.  This  ingenious 
puzzle  tickled  the  palate  of  the  Court.  Publius  had 
divined  the  taste  of  the  century. 

Straightway  he  ventured  on  feats  more  astonishing 
still.  He  wrote  a  dithyrambic,  or  Bacchic  ode  in  free 
stanzas,  and  addressed  it  to  Constantius.  It  consisted 
of  verses  of  different  lengths,  designed  so  that  they 
formed  complete  figures,  such  as  a  Pan's  flute,  a  water- 
organ,  or  a  sacrificial  altar  on  which  the  smoke  was 
represented  by  uneven  phrases.  But  by  a  marvel  of 
skilfulness  the  poem  was  so  contrived  as  to  make  a 
decorative  oblong  twenty  hexameters  wide  and  forty 
hexameters  long.  Certain  lines  were  traced  in  red  ink 
and,  read  together,  became  transformed  into  a  mono- 
gram of  Christ,  or  into  a  flower  of  arabesques,  but 
always,  in  whatever  shape,  made  new  lines  composed 
of  new  compliments.  Finally  the  four  last  hexameters 
of  the  book  could  be  read  in  eighteen  different  orders  : 
from  the  end  backwards,  from  the  beginning,  from  the 
side,  from  the  middle,  from  above,  from  below,  etc., 
and,  read  in  what  manner  you  please,  formed  a  eulogy 
to  the  Emperor. 

In  executing  this  work  the  poor  poet  nearly  lost  his 
wits.  But  his  victory  was  complete,  and  Constantius 
more  than  charmed.  He  believed  that  Publius  had 
surpassed  all  the  poets  of  antiquity  ;  he  wrote  the 
author  a  letter  with  his  own  hand,  assuring  him  of  pro- 
tection and  ending  thus:  "  In  our  age  My  bounty,  like 
the  calm  breath  of  the  zephyrs,  is  breathed  upon  all 
who  write  verses. ' ' 

Nevertheless  his  confiscated  property  was  not  re- 
stored to  the  poet  ;  he  was  simply  given  money  and 
authorised  to  quit  his  desert  island  for  Athens. 

There  he  led  a  melancholy  existence.     The  ostler  in 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  1 1 1 

the  stables  of  the  circus,  in  comparison  with  Publius, 
lived  in  luxury. 

In  the  company  of  gravediggers,  shady  speculators, 
furnishers  of  nuptial  feasts,  he  passed  whole  days  in 
the  antechambers  of  the  illiterate  great,  in  order  to 
obtain  orders  for  a  marriage  ode,  an  epitaph,  or  a  love- 
letter.  At  this  trade  he  gained  little,  but  never  lost 
heart,  hoping  to  ojBfer  to  the  Bmperor  one  day  a  poem 
which  would  win  him  complete  pardon. 

Julian  felt  that  in  spite  of  this  outward  abasement 
Porphyrins  bore  at  heart  a  deep  love  for  Hellas.  He 
was  a  fine  critic  of  Greek  poetry  and  Julian  enjoyed 
his  conversation. 

They  left  the  high-road  and  approached  the  high  wall 
of  an  enclosure  like  sornQ  palcsstra  or  exercise-ground. 
Round  about  all  was  solitary  ;  two  black  lambs  were 
cropping  the  grass;  near  the  closed  door,  in  the  chinks 
of  which  poppies  and  white  daisies  were  growing,  there 
stood  a  chariot  and  two  white  horses.  Their  manes 
were  close-cut  like  those  of  the  horses  in  the  bas-reliefs. 
By  them  stood  an  old  slave,  a  deaf-mute,  but  evidently 
of  an  affable  disposition,  for  he  immediately  recognised 
Publius  and  nodded  to  him  in  friendly  fashion,  point- 
ing to  the  closed  gate  of  the  wrestling  ground. 

**  Lend  me  your  purse  a  moment,"  said  Publius  to 
Julian.  *'  I  '11  take  out  one  or  two  pence  for  this  poor 
old  fool." 

He  threw  the  coins,  and  the  mute,  with  servile 
grimaces  and  pleased  grunts,  opened  the  door. 

They  entered  under  a  long  and  dark  covered  gallery. 
Between  rows  of  columns  ran  other  galleries  laid  out 
for  the  exercise  of  athletes.  The  spaces  in  their  midst 
were  now  widths  of  grass  instead  of  sand.  The  two 
friends  penetrated   a   large    inner    portico.    Julian's 


112  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

curiosity  became  keener  at  every  step,  the  mysterious 
Publius  leading  him  on  by  the  hand  without  a  word. 
Doors  of  exedrcB,  or  academic  halls  where  orators  used 
to  meet,  opened  into  the  second  portico,  and  the  grass- 
hoppers were  humming  now  where  eloquent  discourses 
of  Athenian  sages  had  in  old  time  resounded.  Above 
the  deep  grass  bees  were  whirling  :  silence  and  mel- 
ancholy pervaded  all.  Suddenly,  a  woman's  voice  was 
heard,  and  the  noise  of  a  disk  striking  the  marble, 
followed  by  a  merry  burst  of  laughter. 

Stealing  in  like  robbers,  the  pair  hid  themselves  in 
the  outer  shadow  of  the  columns  of  the  elaiothesion,  or 
place  where  the  ancient  wrestlers  used  to  rub  them- 
selves over  with  oil. 

From  behind  these  columns  could  be  seen  the  ephe- 
beion,  a  quadrangular  space  open  to  the  sky,  originally 
laid  out  for  disk-throwing,  and  now  newly  strown  with 
fresh  sand. 

Julian  looked  in,  and  started  back. 

At  twenty  paces  from  him  stood  a  young  girl  en- 
tirely naked.  His  eyes  swept  over  her  wonderful 
body.     She  was  holding  a  discus  in  her  hand. 

Julian  longed  instinctively  to  beat  a  retreat  ;  but 
turning,  he  saw  in  the  eyes  of  Publius  and  upon  the 
whole  of  that  lean  tawny  face  such  a  look  of  admira- 
tion, that  he  understood  that  the  adorer  of  Hellas,  in 
bringing  him  to  the  place,  had  been  moved  by  no 
shameful  thought;  that  enthusiasm  was  wholly  sacred. 

Publius,  seizing  the  hand  of  Julian,  murmured  : 

**  Look  !  We  are  now  nine  centuries  back,  in  an- 
cient Laconia.  Do  you  remember  the  verses  of  Pro- 
pertius — 

Multa  tuae,  Sparte,  miramur  jura  palaestrae, 
Sed  mage  virginei,  tot  bona  gymnasii, 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  113 

Quod  uon  infames  exercet  corpore  ludos 
Inter  luctantes  nuda  puella  viros  ?  " 

**  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Julian. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  never  wanted  to  know." 

"That  is  well  !     Hush  !" 

Now  he  gazed  eagerly  and  without  shame  at  the 
girl  hurling  the  disk.  Blushes  were  unworthy  of  a 
philosopher. 

She  retreated  some  steps,  inclined  her  body  forward, 
and  advancing  the  left  leg  made  a  swift  bounding 
movement,  and  shot  the  metal  circle  so  high  that  it 
shone  in  the  rising  sun,  and  in  falling  struck  the  farthest 
pillar.  It  was  like  watching  the  motions  of  a  statue 
by  Phidias. 

"  That  shot  was  the  best,"  said  a  little  twelve-year- 
old  damsel,  clad  in  a  rich  tunic  and  standing  near  the 
column. 

'*  Myrrha,  give  me  the  disk,"  replied  the  player. 
"  I  can  throw  it  higher  than  that,  as  you  shall  see. 
Meroe,  get  farther  out  of  the  way.  I  might  hurt  you, 
as  Apollo  hurt  Hyncinthus." 

Meroe,  an  old  Egyptian,  to  judge  by  her  multi- 
coloured vestments  and  tanned  visage,  was  preparing 
in  alabaster  jars  perfumes  for  a  bath.  Julian  under- 
stood that  the  mute  slave  of  the  gate  and  the  white- 
horsed  chariot  outside  must  belong  to  these  two  votaries 
of  the  lyaconian  games. 

After  the  disk-throwing  the  young  girl  took  trom 
Myrrha  a  bow  and  a  quiver,  and  drew  thence  a  long 
arrow.  She  aimed  at  a  black  circle  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  ephebeion  ;  the  string  hummed,  the  arrow  flew 
whistling  and  stuck  in  the  target  :  then  a  second,  then 
a  third. 


114  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

**  O  huntress  Artemis!  "  sighed  Publius. 

Suddenly  a  sunbeam  slipping  between  two  columns 
shot  into  the  face  and  youthful  breast  of  the  young  girl. 
Throwing  bow  and  arrows  aside  in  sudden  bedazzle- 
ment,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Swallow^s,  uttering  their  faint  fine  chirpings,  un- 
dulated about  the  exercise-ground,  and  pursuing  each 
other  vanished  into  the  blue  of  the  sky. 

She  uncovered  her  face  and  raised  her  arms  above 
her  head. 

Its  fair  hair,  golden  at  its  ends  as  honey  in  the  sun, 
at  its  roots  was  auburn  ;  her  lips  half  opened  in  a 
happy  smile,  she  suffered  the  sun  to  bathe  her  body, 
gliding  lower  and  lower  yet,  till  she  stood  clothed,  as 
in  the  loveliest  raiment,  in  pure  light  and  beauty. 

''  Myrrha,"  the  girl  murmured  slowly  and  dreamily, 
**  look  at  the  sky !  How  beautiful  it  would  be  to  bathe 
in  it,  like  those  birds  !  Do  you  remember  our  saying 
that  men  could  not  be  happy  because  they  had  no 
wings  ?  When  I  look  at  the  birds  I  am  consumed  with 
envy.  One  should  be  light  and  bare  as  I  am  at  this 
moment,  and  winging  high  up  in  the  sky,  and  knowing 
that  one  could  fly  forever — that  there  should  be  noth- 
ing else  but  sky  and  sun  about  one's  light  and  free  and 
naked  body  !  " 

Drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height  with  out- 
stretched arms  she  sighed  deeply,  as  at  some  remem- 
bered joy  fled  away  for  ever. 

The  burning  caress  of  the  sun  now  reached  her 
waist.  Suddenly  she  shivered  and  grew  ashamed,  as 
it  some  living  and  passionate  being  had  approached 
her.  With  one  hand  she  shielded  her  breast,  with  the 
other  the  abdomen,  the  immortal  gesture  of  Aphrodite 
of  Cnidos. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  115 

*'  Meroe,  give  me  my  clothes  !  quick,  Meroe  ! "  she 
exclaimed,  with  eyes  wide  open  and  startled. 

Julian  never  remembered  how  he  came  forth  from 
the  wrestling-ground  ;  his  heart  was  on  fire.  The 
poet's  face  was  solemn  as  that  ot  a  man  quitting  a 
temple. 

*'  You  are  not  annoyed  ?  "  he  asked  Julian. 

"  No;  why  should  I  be?" 

**  Perhaps  a  Christian  might  find  it  a  temptation  ?  " 

* '  There  was  nothing  of  temptation  there  for  me.  Do 
you  understand  ?  ' ' 

"  Perfectly;  that  is  what  I  thought." 

And  again  they  found  themselves  on  the  dusty  high- 
road, where  the  sun  was  already  hot,  and  bent  their 
steps  towards  Athens. 

Publius  continued  in  an  undertone,  as  it  were  talk- 
ing to  himself — 

"Oh,  how  shameful,  how  deformed  we  are  nowadays! 
Ashamed  of  our  ow^n  morose  and  pitiful  nakedness,  we 
hide  it  because  we  feel  ugly  and  impure.  Whereas 
of  old  time.  .  .  .  Ah  !  there  was  a  time  when  all  was 
very  different.  Julian,  the  young  girls  of  Sparta  used 
to  go  out  upon  the  wrestling-ground  naked  and 
haughty  before  all  the  people.  Nobody  feared  tempta- 
tion in  those  days  Folk  were  simple  as  children — as 
gods!  And  to  think  that  nevermore  shall  that  happen 
again  ;  that  the  freedom,  the  cleanness,  of  that  happy 
state  shall  be  seen  on  earth  no  more  ! ' ' 

The  poet's  chin  fell  on  his  breast,  and  he  sighed 
drearily. 

They  came  at  last  to  the  Street  of  Tripods,  and  hard 
by  the  Acropolis  the  friends  separated  and  went  their 
ways  in  silence. 

Julian  went    into    the    shadow   of  the    propylsea, 


ii6  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

through  vast  porches  leading  into  temple-enclosures  ; 
but  avoided  the  Decorated  Porch,  on  which  Parrhasius 
had  chiselled  the  battles  of  Marathon  and  Salamis,  and 
passing  the  little  temple  of  the  Wingless  Victory  as- 
cended to  the  Parthenon. 

He  had  but  to  shut  his  eyes  to  remember  the  superb 
body  of  Artemis  the  huntress.  When  he  opened  them 
the  sun-bathed  Parthenon  marbles  seemed  golden  and 
living  as  that  divine  body  ;  and,  despising  Imperial 
spies  and  chances  of  death,  he  desired  openly  to  wor- 
ship and  kiss  the  warm  stones  of  that  holy  place. 

Two  black-robed  young  men  of  pale  and  severe 
countenance  were  standing  near.  They  were  Gregory 
of  Nazianzen  and  Basil  of  Csesarea.  The  Hellenists 
feared  these  two  men  as  their  most  formidable  foes.  It 
was  the  hope  of  the  Christians  that  the  two  friends 
would  one  day  become  fathers  of  the  Church.  They 
were  now  watching  Julian. 

''  What  's  the  matter  with  him  to-day  ?  "  said  Gre- 
gory. * '  Is  that  the  attitude  of  a  monk  ?  Are  those  the 
gestures  of  a  monk  ?  Do  you  see  those  closed  eyes — 
that  smile  ?  Do  you  believe  that  his  piety  is  genuine, 
Basil  ?  " 

* '  I  have  often  watched  him  weeping  and  praying  in 
church. ' ' 

*  *  Mere  hypocrisy  ! ' ' 

"  If  so,  why  does  he  come  to  us,  seek  our  friendship, 
and  argue  over  the  Scriptures  ?  " 

**  He  's  deceiving  himself;  or  perhaps  he  wishes  to 
seduce  the  faithful.  Never  trust  him  !  He  is  the 
tempter  !  Remember  what  I  say,  brother,  the  Roman 
Empire  in  fostering  this  young  man  is  nursing  an 
adder!" 

The  two  friends  went  off,  their  eyes  on  the  ground. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  117 

The  severe  caryatids  of  the  Erechtheum,  the  laughing 
blue  of  the  sky,  the  white  temple  of  the  Wingless  One, 
the  Porches  and  the  Parthenon,  that  wonder  of  the 
world,  on  them  cast  no  spell.  One  thing  alone  did 
they  desire  :  to  lay  all  these  haunts  of  demons  in  the 
dust.  The  long  shadows  of  the  monks  fell  on  the 
Parthenon  steps  as  they  walked  away. 

"  I  must  see  her  again,"  Julian  was  thinking  ,  "  I 
must  find  out  who  she  is." 


XIII 

**  T^HE  gods  created  mortals  for  one  purpose  only— 
1       polite  conversation  !  " 

*'  Charmingly  said,  Mamertinus  !  Say  it  again,  I 
beg,  before  you  've  forgotten  it!  I  '11  write  that  down 
with  the  other  maxims,"  declared  Lampridius,  the 
professor  of  eloquence,  taking  tablets  from  his  pocket. 
His  admired  friend  Mamertinus  was  a  fashionable 
Athenian  advocate. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  say,"  repeated  Mamertinus  with 
the  most  delicate  of  smiles,  *'  I  merely  say  that  men 
have  been  sent  by  the  gods " 

"  No,  no,  it  did  n't  run  so,  Mamertinus  ;  you  put  it 
better.     The  gods  created  mortals " 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  the  gods  created  mortals  for  one  purpose 
only — polite  conversation ! ' ' 

And  the  enthusiastic  I^ampridius  scribbled  down  the 
words  as  if  they  had  been  the  utterance  of  an  oracle. 

The  scene  was  a  friendly  supper  of  men  of  letters 
given  by  the  venerable  Roman  senator  Hortensius,  in 
the  villa  of  his  rich  young  ward  Arsinoe,  not  far  from 
the  Piraeus. 

Mamertinus  on  that  day  had  achieved  a  remarkable 
speech  in  defence  of  the  banker  Barnava.  Nobody  had 
the  smallest  doubt  that  Barnava  was  a  complete  scoun- 
drel ;  but,  besides  measureless  eloquence,  the  advocate 
possessed  so  telling  a  voice  that  one  of  the  innumerable 
ladies  who  adored  him  avowed  :    "I  never  listen  to 

ii8 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  1 19 

what  Mamertiaus  says  ;  I  have  no  wish  to  know  what 
he  's  talking  about.  I  become  intoxicated  with  the 
tones  of  his  voice,  and  especially  with  the  dying 
cadence  at  the  end  of  his  periods.  It  is  incredible  ! 
It  is  no  longer  a  human  voice,  but  nectar  and  ambrosia, 
the  heavenly  sighing  of  an  ^olian  harp  !  " 

And  so,  while  the  populace  labelled  the  money- 
lender Barnava  **  the  blood-sucker,"  the  devourer  of 
widows  and  orphans,  the  Athenian  judges  enthusiasti- 
cally acquitted  the  client  of  Mamertinus. 

From  this  client  the  advocate  had  received  50,000 
sesterces,  and  therefore  felt  in  no  dissatisfied  mood  at 
the  supper  given  by  Hortensius  in  his  honour.  But  it 
was  his  habit  to  affect  the  invalid,  in  order  that  he 
might  be  spoiled  and  petted  the  more. 

* '  I  am  utterly  done  up  to-day,  my  friends, ' '  he  mur- 
mured plaintively  ;  "  aching  in  every  limb.  Where  is 
Arsinoe  ?  " 

"  She  will  soon  be  here.  Arsinoe  has  just  received 
from  the  museum  of  Alexandria  some  new  apparatus 
for  experiments  in  physics;  and  she  is  entirely  absorbed 
in  them.  But  I  will  give  an  order  to  summon  her," 
suggested  Hortensius. 

**  No,  don't  do  that,"  responded  the  lawyer  care- 
lessly. "  But  what  a  ridiculous  thing — a  young  girl  at 
physics  !  What  in  the  world  has  the  one  thing  to  do 
with  the  other  ?  Your  blue-stockings  have  been  finely 
belaboured  by  Aristophanes  and  Euripides.  Arsinoe 
is  a  whimsical  creature,  Hortensius  !  Really,  if  she 
was  n't  so  attractive,  what  with  her  sculpture  and  her 
mathematics  she  would  almost  become ' ' 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  and  gazed  languidly 
DUt  of  the  window. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"   replied  Hortensius.     "A 


I20  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

spoiled  child  ...  an  orphan  ;  no  father,  no  mother  I 
As  her  mere  tutor,  I  can't  well  deny  her  anything.'* 

"I  see,  I  see." 

The  lawyer  was  no  longer  listening  ;  he  was  think- 
ing about  himself. 

'*  My  dear  fellows,  I  feel *' 

"  What — what  's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  several  voices 
anxiously. 

"  I  'm  feeling — I  fancy — a  draught.  ..." 

"  We  '11  shut  the  shutters,"  proposed  the  host. 

"  No,  we  should  be  stifled  !  But  I  've  so  worn  out 
my  voice  to-day.  .  .  .  And  I  have  to  make  another 
defence  to-morrow.  Give  me  a  carpet  under  my  feet, 
and  my  wrapper  ;  I  'm  afraid  of  catching  cold  in  the 
night  chill." 

And  Hephaestion,  the  friend  of  Publius  and  pupil  of 
lyampridius,  rushed  away  to  get  Mamertinus'  wrapper. 

It  was  a  piece  of  soft  woollen  stuff,  daintily  em- 
broidered. The  lawyer  carried  it  everywhere  to  safe- 
guard his  precious  throat  from  the  faintest  risk  of  cold. 

Mamertinus  nursed  his  own  health  like  a  lover,  with 
so  simple  a  grace,  such  a  passion  of  self-solicitude,  that 
his  friends  were  instinctively  constrained  to  think  of 
nothing  but  nursing  him  too. 

*'  This  wrapper  was  embroidered  for  me  by  the  ven- 
erable Fabiola,"  he  informed  them  with  a  smile. 

"  Wife  of  the  senator  ?  "  asked  Hortensius. 

**  Yes  !  I  '11  tell  you  a  little  story  about  her.  One 
day  I  wrote  a  note — a  graceful  trifle,  but  really  a  mere 
trifle— just  five  lines  in  Greek  to  another  lady  (also  one 
of  my  admirers),  who  had  sent  me  a  basket  of  the  most 
charming  cherries.  I  thanked  her  in  a  frolicsome 
imitation  of  Pliny.  But  just  imagine,  my  friends, 
Fabiola  was  seized  with  so  violent  a  desire  to  read  that 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  121 

letter  and  to  copy  it  for  her  collection,  that  she  sent 
two  of  her  slaves  to  lie  in  wait  for  my  messenger. 
So,  brought  to  a  halt  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  not  a 
soul  in  sight,  he  thought,  of  course,  that  brigands  were 
about  to  strip  him  of  lock,  stock,  and  barrel.  But 
they  did  him  no  harm,  gave  him  money,  and  only  took 
from  him  my  letter,  so  that  Fabiola  might  have  the 
first  reading  of  it.     She  actually  learnt  it  by  heart !  " 

*'  You  don't  mean  it  ?  Ah,  I  know  her  !  She  is  a 
most  remarkable  woman,"  continued  Lampridius. 
**  I  have  seen  myself  that  she  keeps  all  your  letters 
enclosed  in  a  lemon-wood  casket  like  so  many  jewels. 
She  learns  them  by  heart  and  declares  that  they  are 
superior  to  any  poetry.  Fabiola  argues,  and  argues 
rightly:  *  Since  Alexander  the  Great  used  to  keep  the 
poems  of  Homer  in  a  cedar- wood  coffer,  why  should  n't 
I  keep  the  letters  of  Mamertinus  in  a  jewel-casket  ?  '  " 

"  Thi^foie  gras  with  saffron  sauce  is  the  height  of 
perfection  !     I  advise  you  to  taste  it." 

"  Who  made  it,  Hortensius  ?  " 

'*  My  head-cook,  Daedalus." 

*'  All  honour  to  him  !  ...  he  's  a  poet." 

**  Don't  let  a  goose's  liver  run  away  with  you,  m^^ 
dear  Garguillus  !  A  cook,  a  poet  ?  You  will  offend 
the  divine  muses,  our  protectresses  ! ' ' 

**  I  aflfirm  !  and  I  shall  always  maintain  !  that  cook- 
ing is  an  art  as  lofty  as  any  other.  It  's  time  to  fling 
prejudices  to  the  winds,  Lampridius  !  " 

Garguillus,  the  head  of  the  Imperial  chancery,  was 
a  man  of  enormous  body,  extremely  fat,  his  triple  chin 
scrupulously  shaved  and  perfumed,  and  his  grey  hair 
closely  cropped.  His  face  was  intelligent  and  noble  ; 
for  many  years  he  had  been  considered  the  indispens- 
able guest  at  every  supper  of  Athenian  men  of  letters. 


122  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Garguillus  loved  only  two  things  in  the  world,  a  good 
table  and  a  good  style.  Gastronomy  and  literature 
blended  for  him  into  a  double  bliss. 

"  Suppose  now  I  take  an  oyster,"  he  was  declaring 
while  his  delicate  fingers,  loaded  with  amethysts  and 
rubies,  brought  the  mollusc  towards  his  mouth  ;  "  I 
take  an  oyster,  and  I  swallow  it" — and  in  fact  he 
swallowed  it,  shutting  his  eyes,  with  a  sucking  and 
clucking  noise  of  his  upper  lip,  which  was  curiously 
greedy,  and  even  rapacious,  in  its  appearance.  It  was 
prominent,  trussed  into  a  point,  oddly  twisted,  and 
vaguely  resembled  a  small  elephant's  trunk.  When 
repeating  a  sonorous  verse  of  Anacreon  or  Moschus  he 
would  move  about  this  upper  lip  with  as  much  sensu- 
ousness  as  when  tasting  at  supper  some  sauce  of  night- 
ingales' tongues. 

"  I  swallow  it,  and  I  am  immediately  aware,"  went 
on  Garguillus  solemnly  —  "  I  am  immediately  aware 
that  the  oyster  comes  from  the  coast  of  Britain  and  not 
from  the  south  or  from  Tarentum.  Would  you  like 
me  to  prove  it  ?  Shall  I  close  my  eyes  and  say  from 
what  sea  the  fish  comes  ?  ' ' 

' '  But  what  in  the  world  has  that  to  do  with  poetry  ?  " 
asked  Mamertinus  impatiently.  He  could  not  bear 
that  any  but  himself  should  receive  general  attention. 

"  Imagine  for  yourselves,  my  dear  friends,"  con- 
tinued the  gastronomist  imperturbably,  *'  that  for  years 
I  have  not  been  to  the  shores  of  the  ocean,  which  I 
love  and  am  always  regretting.  I  assure  you  that  a 
good  oyster  has  such  a  fresh  and  salty  relish  of  the  sea, 
that  to  swallow  it  is  immediately  to  be  a  thousand  miles 
hence  on  the  immense  seashore.  I  close  my  eyes,  I  see 
the  waves,  I  see  the  rocks,  I  feel  the  breeze  of  '  foggy 
ocean,*  as  Homer  calls  it !  .  .  .  No  !  tell  me  frankly 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  123 

what  verse  of  the  Odyssey  can  wake  in  me  as  clearly 
the  sense  of  sea  poetry  as  the  smell  of  a  fresh  oyster  ? 
Or  when  I  divide  a  peach  and  inhale  the  odour  of  its 
juice,  why,  tell  me,  are  the  perfume  of  the  violet  and 
the  rose  more  essentially  poetical  ?  Poets  describe 
form,  colour,  sound.  Why  can  taste  be  not  perfect  as 
these  ?  All  is  stupid  prejudice,  my  dear  fellows  ! 
Taste  is  an  immense  and  hitherto  unexplored  boon 
from  the  gods.  The  assemblage  of  tastes  forms  a 
harmony  as  fine  as  any  orchestration  of  sounds.  I 
affirm,  therefore,  that  there  is  a  tenth  muse,  the  muse 
of  Gastronomy !  ' ' 

"  Let  oysters  and  peaches  be  admitted.  But  what 
harmonj^  what  beauty  can  you  discover  in  a  goose  liver 
dressed  with  saffron  sauce  ?  " 

* '  You  are  ready  to  allow,  Lampridius,  that  there  is 
beauty  not  only  in  the  idylls  of  Theocritus,  but  even 
in  the  coarsest  comedies  of  Plautus  ?  " 

*'  I  admit  that." 

*'  Well,  my  friend,  for  me  there  is  a  gastronomic 
poesy  in  foie  gras ;  in  fact  I  am  prepared  to  crown 
Daedalus  with  laurels  for  this  dish,  just  as  I  would 
crown  an  Olympic  ode  of  Pindar  !  ' ' 

Two  new  guests  appeared  on  the  threshold  ;  they 
were  Julian  and  the  poet  Publius.  Hortensius  yielded 
the  place  of  honour  to  Julian,  while  Publius  devoured 
the  innumerable  dishes  with  his  eyes.  To  judge  by 
his  new  chlamys  the  rich  widow  must  have  departed 
this  life,  and  the  happy  heirs  paid  for  the  epitaph  in  no 
niggardly  fashion. 

The  general  conversation  went  on.  I^ampridius  told 
a  story  of  how  one  day,  moved  by  curiosity,  he  had 
been  to  hear  a  Christian  preacher  thundering  against 
pagan  grammarians.     *  *  The  grammarians, ' '  assevered 


1 24  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

the  preacher,  *'  do  not  rank  men  for  their  worth,  but 
for  their  literary  style,  thinking  it  less  criminal  to  kill 
a  man  than  to  pronounce  the  word  homo  with  a  wrong 
aspiration  !  "  I^ampridius  suspected  that  if  these 
Christian  preachers  hated  the  style  of  the  rhetoricians 
to  such  a  degree,  it  was  because,  conscious  that  they 
themselves  could  write  and  speak  only  like  barbar- 
ians, they  made  ignorance  the  badge  of  moral  worth, 
so  that  for  them  a  good  speaker  became  a  suspicious 
character. 

'*  The  day  on  which  eloquence  perishes  will  see  the 
end  of  Hellas,  the  end  of  Rome  !  People  will  turn  into 
dumb  animals,  and  it  is  to  make  them  so  that  Chris- 
tian preachers  use  their  barbarous  jargon." 

*'  Who  knows,"  murmured  Mamertinus  pensively, 
"  perhaps  style  is  more  important  than  virtue,  since 
slaves,  barbarians,  and  nincompoops  can  all  be  vir- 
tuous! " 

Hephaestion  meanwhile  was  explaining  to  his  neigh- 
bour the  exact  meaning  of  Cicero's  advice — **  Causam 
mendaciunculis  adspergere. ' ' 

*'  Mendaciunculis y  that  's  to  say,  little  lies.  Cicero, 
in  fact,  advises  you  to  sow  little  inventions  all  over 
your  speech  ;  he  admits  falsehood  if  decorative." 

Then  followed  a  general  discussion  on  the  methods 
of  beginning  a  speech  :  should  the  beginning  be  ana- 
paestic or  dactylic  ? 

Julian  became  bored. 

He  confessed  heartily  that  he  had  never  considered 
the  matter,  and  that  in  his  opinion  the  speaker  ought 
rather  to  preoccupy  himself  with  the  fundamental  idea 
^f  his  speech  than  with  the  making  style  out  of  a 
mosaic  of  peccadilloes. 

Mamertinus  —  then  lyampridius  and  Hephaestion — 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  125 

waxed  wroth.  According  to  them  the  subject  of  a 
speech  was  a  matter  of  no  moment.  To  an  orator  it 
should  be  absolutely  indifferent  whether  he  undertook 
to  attack  or  to  defend  a  case.  Kven  meaning  had  no 
interest  for  him.  The  principal  thing  was  the  orches- 
tration of  verbal  sounds  —  the  melody,  the  musical  as- 
sonance of  letters — permitting  even  a  barbarian,  witless 
of  Greek,  to  feel  the  sheer  beauty  of  language. 

*'  I  '11  just  give  you  an  example,  two  I^atin  verses  of 
Propertius,"  said  Garguillus.  "  Notice  the  power  of 
the  sounds  and  the  emptiness  of  the  meaning.    Listen — 

''^  ^  Et  Veneris  domincB  volucres,  mea  turba  columbcB^ 
Tingunt  Gorgonio punica  rostra  lacu.^ 

What  pure  delight  !  Every  letter  sings  !  What 
does  the  meaning  matter  ?  All  the  beauty  consists  in 
the  sound,  in  the  assemblage  of  vowels  and  consonants. 
For  that  utterance  I  would  give  all  the  civic  virtue  of 
Juvenal  and  the  philosophy  of  Lucretius  !  No  !  Just 
hear  again !    What  sweetness  there  is  in  that  murmur — 

^^  ^  Et  Veneris  domincB  vohicres^  mea  turba  columbcs  !  '  '* 

and  he  wagged  that  upper  lip  with  a  smack  of  delight. 

Everybody  repeated  the  lines  of  Propertius,  unweary- 
ing of  their  charm,  and  embarking  on  a  veritable  orgy 
of  quotation. 

"  Just  listen,"  murmured  Mamertinus  in  his  ^olian 
voice — 

^^  ^  Tingunt  Gorgonio  .  .  .* '* 

**  Tingunt  Gorgonio,''''  repeated  the  master  of  chan- 
cery. "  By  Pallas! — why,  it  delights  one's  very  palate. 
It  's  like  swallowing  a  warm  mouthful  of  wine  mingled 
with  Attic  honey — 


1^26  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  *  Tingunt  Gorgonio  .  .  .' 
Note  how    the  '  g's '    follow  each   other,  and    then 
farther  on — 

***...  pmiica  rostra  lacu. '  ' ' 

**  Astounding!  inimitable!  "  murmured  Lampridius, 
shutting  his  eyes. 

Julian  was  ashamed  and  amused  at  this  verbal  in- 
toxication. 

**  Words  should  be,  to  a  certain  extent,  devoid  of 
meaning,"  continued  Lampridius  gravely  ;  '*  they 
should  flow,  roar,  chant,  without  ever  bringing  up 
short  either  the  ear  or  the  emotion.  Then  only  real 
enjoyment  of  their  beauty  is  possible." 

On  the  threshold  of  the  door,  from  which  the  gaze 
of  Julian  had  seldom  departed,  there  now  appeared, 
quietly  as  a  shadow,  a  white  and  haughty  figure. 

The  open  shutters  allowed  the  moonlight  to  fall  in, 
mingling  with  the  ruddy  shine  of  torches  on  the  mosaic 
of  the  mirror-smooth  floor,  and  on  the  wall  frescoes, 
portraying  Endymion  asleep  under  the  caresses  of 
Selene.  The  apparition  kept  still  as  a  statue.  The 
antique  Greek  peplum  of  soft  white  wool  fell  in  long 
folds,  cinctured  high  under  the  breast.  Moonlight  illu- 
mined the  robe,  but  the  face  remained  in  shadow.  The 
newcomer  looked  at  Julian  and  Julian  looked  at  her. 
They  smiled  at  each  other,  knowing  that  nobody  ob- 
served them,  and  finger  on  lip  she  listened  to  the  anec- 
dotes of  the  guests. 

Suddenly  Mamertinus,  who  was  discussing  with 
Lampridius  grammatical  peculiarities  of  the  first  and 
second  aorist,  exclaimed — 

**  Arsinoe  I  At  last  !  So  you  've  made  up  yout 
mind  to  abandon  physics  and  modelling  for  our  com- 
pany ?  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  127 

She  came  in  and  deigned  a  smile  to  everyone. 

She  was  the  same  disk-thrower  whom  a  month  before 
Julian  had  seen  in  the  abandoned  wrestling-ground. 
The  poet  Publius,  knowing  everybody  and  everything 
in  Athens,  had  sought  the  acquaintance  of  Hortensius 
and  Arsinoe,  and  had  introduced  Julian  to  the  house. 

Arsinoe's  father,  an  old  Roman  senator,  Helvidius 
Priscus,  had  died  during  the  last  years  of  Constantine 
the  Great,  bequeathing  Arsinoe  and  Myrrha,  his  two 
daughters  by  a  Goth  woman-prisoner,  to  Hortensius, 
whom  he  respected  on  account  of  his  love  for  antique 
Rome  and  hatred  for  Christianity.  A  distant  relative 
of  Arsinoe,  owner  of  factories  of  purple  at  Sidon,  had 
left  his  incalculable  wealth  to  the  young  girl. 

To  Arsinoe,  Christian  virtues  and  the  patriarchal 
customs  of  Rome  seemed  equally  contemptible.  The 
figures  of  independent  women,  Aspasia,  Cleopatra,  and 
Sappho,  alone  captivated  her  girlish  imagination. 
Had  she  not  declared  naively  one  day,  to  the  horror 
of  Hortensius,  that  she  would  rather  become  a  beauti- 
ful and  free  courtesan,  than  be  transformed  into  the 
mother  of  a  family,  slave  of  a  husband,  **  like  every- 
body else"?  Those  three  words,  "like  everybody 
else,"  filled  her  with  melancholy  disgust.  At  one 
time  Arsinoe  was  attracted  by  natural  science,  and 
had  worked  with  illustrious  men  of  science  at  the 
museum  in  Alexandria.  Then  the  atomic  theories  of 
Epicurus,  Democrates,  and  Lucretius  had  enthralled 
her.  She  loved  a  study  which  should  deliver  her  soul 
from  the  *  *  terror  of  the  gods. ' ' 

With  the  same  almost  morbid  intensity,  she  had 
afterwards  applied  herself  to  sculpture,  and  had  come 
to  Athens  in  order  to  study  the  best  works,  the  master- 
pieces of  Phidias,  Scopas,  and  Praxiteles. 


128  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"You  are  still  discussing  grammar?"  asked  the 
daughter  of  Helvidius  Priscus  of  the  guests,  as  she 
came  into  the  dining-hall.  She  continued  ironically: 
'*  Don't  trouble  yourselves  ;  go  on.  I  won't  argue  oi 
complain,  because  I  'm  too  hungry  after  my  day's* 
work.     Slave,  some  wine  !  .  .  ." 

*'  My  friends,"  continued  Arsinoe  when  seated^ 
*'  you  '11  ruin  your  minds  with  quotations  from  Demos, 
thenes  and  your  rules  from  Quintilian  !  .  .  .  Take 
care  !  Rhetoric  will  ruin  you.  ...  I  want  to  see  a 
man  who  does  n't  care  a  fig  for  Homer  or  for  Cicero, 
who  speaks  without  thinking  of  the  aspirates,  of  syn- 
tax, or  of  the  conjunction  of  letters.  Julian,  let  us  go 
down  to  the  beach  after  supper  ;  I  am  disinclined  for 
discussions  on  dactyls  and  anapaests." 

"  Precisely  my  own  mood,  Arsinoe,"  stammered 
Garguillus,  who  had  eaten  too  much /oze  gras  and  who 
almost  always,  at  the  end  of  dinner,  felt  an  aversion 
for  literature  proportionate  to  the  weight  upon  his 
stomach. 

**  Litterarum  intemperantia  labor amus,'*^  as  Seneca 
used  to  say.  ""  We  are  suffering  from  literary  indiges- 
tion. We  are  simply  poisoning  ourselves  !  "  and  he 
thoughtfully  took  a  tooth-pick  from  a  pocket.  His 
large  face  expressed  weariness  and  disgust. 


XIV 

TOGETHER  the  pair  went  down  the  alley  of  cy- 
presses leading  to  the  sea.  The  moon-path  of 
sensitive  silver  on  the  waters  ran  up  to  the  horizon, 
and  waves  were  breaking  against  a  chalk  cliff.  At  the 
end  of  the  alley  there  was  a  semicircular  seat.  Above 
it  the  huntress  Artemis,  in  short  tunic,  with  crescented 
hair,  quiver  on  shoulder,  and  two  deer-hounds  at  her 
feet,  looked  down  on  the  two  young  people. 

They  sat  down  together.  Arsinoe  pointed  out  the 
hill  of  the  Acropolis,  so  distant  that  the  columns  of  the 
Parthenon  could  hardly  be  distinguished;  and  took  up 
the  thread  of  conversations  started  at  their  former 
meetings — 

' '  See  how  beautiful  it  is  !  .  .  .  And  you  would  de- 
stroy that,  Julian  ?  " 

Making  no  reply,  he  stared  on  the  ground. 

*'  I  have  thought  much  over  what  you  said  to  me 
the  last  time  we  met,  concerning  this  humility  of 
yours,"  continued  Arsinoe  gently.  "  Was  Alexander 
son  of  Philip  of  Macedon  humble  ?  And  nevertheless 
is  he  not  great  and  splendid  ?  " 

Julian  said  nothing. 

*'  And  Brutus,  Brutus  the  stabber  of  Caesar!  Had 
Brutus  turned  the  left  cheek  when  struck  on  the  right, 
do  you  think  he  would  have  been  more  sublime  ?  Or, 
indeed,  perhaps  you  consider  him  a  criminal,  you  Gali- 
leans? Why  can  I  not  help  thinking  sometimes, 
Julian,  that  you  are  a  hypocrite  ;  and  that  these  black 
*  129 


I30  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

habiliments  are  not  your  body's  true  raiment  ?  ** 

She  turned,  brusquely  towards  his  moon-lit  face  and 
regarded  him  steadfastly. 

**  Arsinoe,  what  do  you  want  of  me?"  murmured 
Julian,  whose  cheek  was  very  pale. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  frankly  my  foe  !  "  exclaimed  the 
young  girl.  "  You  must  not  pass  by  like  this,  without 
telling  me  what  you  are.  Sometimes  I  dream  that  it 
would  be  better  if  Rome  and  Athens  were  utterly 
ruined  !  Better  burn  a  corpse  than  leave  it  unburied  ! 
And  all  our  friends  here — grammarians,  rhetoricians — 
poets  who  write  Imperial  eulogies — all  these  are  the 
rotting  body  of  Greece  and  Rome.  In  their  company 
one  grows  afraid,  as  among  the  shroudless  dead.  .  .  . 
Oh,  you  may  triumph,  Galileans  !  Soon  corpses  and 
ruins  are  all  that  will  remain  on  earth  !  .  .  .  And  you, 
Julian.  .  .  .  But  no  !  .  .  .  It  is  impossible  !  I  do  not 
believe  that  you  are  with  them  and  against  Hellas— 
against  me  !  .  .  ." 

Julian  sprang  up  before  her,  pale  and  mute,  longing 
to  burst  away.     She  held  him  back. 

"  Tell  me  that  you  are  my  enemy,"  she  said  with 
heart-broken  challenge  in  her  voice. 

"Arsinoe!  .  .  .  Why " 

*'  Tell  me  all!  .  .  .  I  must  know.  Do  you  not  feel 
how  near  we  are  ?  Or  are  you  indeed  afraid  to 
speak  ? ' ' 

"  In  two  days  I  leave  Athens,"  murmured  Julian. 

**  Why  ? — Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  The  Emperor  has  recalled  me  to  Court — to  die 
perhaps.  I  may  now  be  looking  at  you  for  the  last 
time." 

**  Julian,  you  do  not  believe  in  Him  ?  "  cried  Arsinoe, 
seeking  to  read  the  eyes  of  the  monk. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  131 

**  Speak  lower!" 

He  rose,  and  striding  round  cautiously  explored  the 
dusty  road  silvered  by  the  moon,  the  bushes,  and  even 
the  sea,  as  if  afraid  to  see  sudden-rising  spies  from  the 
Emperor.  Reassured,  he  returned  and  sat  down. 
Leaning  one  hand  heavily  on  the  marble  he  brought 
his  lips  close  to  the  ear  of  Arsinoe  —  so  near  that  she 
felt  his  warm  breath — muttering  rapidly — 

"  Believe  in  Him  f  .  .  .  Listen,  girl  !  I  say  to  you 
now  what  I  have  never  dared  to  say  even  to  myself.  I 
hate  the  Galilean!  .  .  .  But  I  have  lied  as  long  as  I 
can  remember.  Lying  has  soaked  into  my  soul,  or 
clung  to  it,  as  this  black  vestment  clings  to  my  body.  / 
You  remember  the  poisoned  shirt  of  Nessus  ;  Her- 
cules snatched  it  off  with  pieces  of  his  own  flesh  and  it 
slew  him,  all  the  same.  I — I  too  shall  perish  wearing 
this  Galilean  lie!  " 

He  pronounced  each  word  with  painful  effort. 
Arsinoe  gazed  at  him.  His  face,  changed  by  suffering 
and  hatred,  became  the  face  of  a  stranger. 

"  Be  calm,  friend  !  "  she  murmured,  "  Tell  me  all. 
I  shall  understand  you  better  than  anyone  else." 

*'  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  speak,  but  speech  is  a 
power  I  have  lost,"  sneered  Julian.  "  I  have  kept 
silence  too  long.  Do  you  understand,  Arsinoe  ?  It  is 
all  over  with  him  who  has  once  fallen  into  their 
clutches  !  These  good  and  humble  men  deform  him 
to  such  a  degree— teach  him  so  thoroughly  to  lie  and  to 
dissimulate  —  that  it  becomes  impossible  ever  to  stand 
erect  and  manful  again!  " 

The  blood  rushed  to  his  forehead,  swelling  the  veins, 
and  through  clenched  teeth  he  muttered — 

**  Cowardice  !  Foul  Galilean  cowardice!  this  —  to 
hate  your  enemy  as  I  hate  Constantius,  and  to  pardon 


132  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

him,  to  crouch  at  his  feet,  cringe  like  a  serpent,  to  sup- 
plicate  him  in  the  humble  Christian  manner  :  'A  year, 
grant  your  weak-witted  slave,  Julian,  another  year  ; 
and  then  do  with  him  as  it  may  please  you  and  your 
counsellors,  O  well-beloved  of  God  ! '  What  base- 
ness! " 

**  No,  Julian,"  protested  Arsinoe,  ''you  will  con- 
quer !  Deception  is  your  strength  .  .  .  Julian,  do  you 
remember  ^sop's  fable.  The  Ass  in  the  Irion's  Skin  ? 
In  this  affair  of  yours  the  story  is  reversed;  the  lion  is 
in  the  ass's  skin,  and  the  hero  in  a  monkish  habit  ! 
And  how  they  will  shrink  affrighted  when  you  suddenly 
show  your  talons  !  What  joy  and  what  terror  !  Tell 
me,  you  long  for  power  ?  " 

"  Power  !  "  cried  Julian,  intoxicated  at  the  sound  of 
the  word  and  inhaling  with  deep  breaths  the  fresh  air 
of  night  — ' '  power  !  .  .  .  oh,  only  for  a  year,  a  few 
months,  a  few  days  !  And  I  would  teach  them,  I 
would  teach  all  these  crawling  and  venomous  creatures 
what  means  their  Master's  word,  '  Render  unto  Caesar 
the  things  that  are  Caesar's  ' ;  I  swear  by  the  Sun-god 
they  should  render  to  Caesar  what  is  his  !  " 

He  raised  his  head,  his  eyes  flashing  with  rage  and 
pride  and  renewed  youth.  Arsinoe  gazed  on  him  with 
a  smile.  But  his  head  soon  fell.  He  sank  back  on  the 
bench  and  crossing  his  arms  on  his  breast  in  monkish 
fashion  he  faltered — 

*' No,  no;  why  nurse  empty  dreams?  That  can 
never  be.  I  shall  perish.  Anger  will  stifle  me. 
lyisten;  every  night  after  passing  the  day  on  my  knees 
in  churches,  bowed  over  relics,  I  go  home  broken  with 
fatigue  ;  I  fling  myself  on  the  bed  and  sob  ;  j^es,  bite 
my  own  flesh,  to  avoid  crying  out  with  pain.  Oh,  you 
cannot  know  yet,  Arsinoe,  this  Galilean  horror  and  in- 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  133 

fection  in  which  I  have  agonised  for  twenty  years  with- 
out escaping  by  death.  We  Christians  take  a  deal  of 
killing,  — worms  that  live  on  even  when  cut  in  pieces  ! 
At  first  I  used  to  seek  consolation  in  the  teachings  of 
the  diviners  and  philosophers.  It  was  hopeless.  I 
follow  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  I  am  wicked 
and  I  wish  to  be  wickeder  still.  To  be  strong  and  ter- 
rible as  the  Demon,  my  only  brother  ...  But  why, 
why  can  I  not  forget  that  there  is  beauty  in  the  world ; 
why,  O  cruel  one,  did  j^ou  dawn  upon  my  life  ?  " 

With  a  quick  spontaneous  movement  Arsinoe  flung 
her  bare  arms  round  Julian's  neck,  drew  him  to  her  so 
strongly,  so  closely,  that  he  felt  the  whole  freshness 
of  her  body,  murmuring — 

"  And  if  I  did  come  towards  you,  O  young  man, 
what  if  it  were  as  a  sibjd  to  prophesy  you  glory  ?  You 
alone  are  alive  among  the  dead  !  Splendour  is  yours  ! 
What  matters  it  to  me  that  your  wings  are  no  swan's 
wings,  but  wings  of  the  black  and  lost,  your  talons, 
talons  of  a  bird  of  prey  ?  My  love  is  for  all  the  re- 
volted, the  reprobate,  the  rejected  —  you  understand 
me,  Julian  ?  I  love  the  proud  and  solitary  eagles  bet- 
ter than  any  stainless  swan.  Only  ...  be  prouder 
yet,  be  wickeder  yet  !  Dare  up  to  the  height  of  your 
ambition  !  Lie  without  shame  ;  better  lie  than  be 
humiliated.  Fear  not  hate  ;  it  is  the  impetus  of  your 
wings.  Come,  shall  we  make  an  alliance  ?  You  shall 
give  me  power,  I  will  give  you  beauty.  Are  you  will- 
ing, Julian  ?  " 

Again  through  the  light  folds  of  her  antique  peplum, 
as  once  in  the  palc^sfra,  he  saw  the  breathing  image 
of  the  huntress  Artemis  ;  it  seemed  that  divine  body 
shone  through,  golden  and  tender. 

His  head  reeled  in   the  lunar  shadow  enveloping 


134  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

them.  Those  haughty  lips  laughingly  approached  his 
own. 

For  the  last  time  he  mused.  **  I  must  tear  myself 
away.  She  does  not  love  me.  She  will  never  love 
me.     Her  love  is  only  for  power." 

But  immediately  he  added  to  himself,  with  a  faint 
smile:  "  Well,  let  it  be  so  !  I  consent  to  be  duped  !  " 

The  chill  of  the  strange  and  insatiate  kiss  of  Arsinoe 
shot  to  his  heart  like  the  chill  of  death.  It  seemed  as  if 
Artemis  herself,  in  the  translucence  of  the  moon,  had 
descended  towards  him,  embraced  him,  and  mocked 
him,  and  like  a  beam  of  moonlight  fled  away. 

On  the  following  morning  Basil  of  Csesarea  and 
Gregory  of  Nazianzen  came  across  Julian  in  a  basilica 
in  Athens.  He  was  kneeling  in  prayer.  The  two 
friends  gazed  at  him,  surprised.  Never  had  they  seen 
upon  his  features  such  an  expression  of  rapt  serenity. 

"  Brother,"  murmured  Basil  to  Gregory,  "  we  have 
sinned  ;  he  whom  we  inwardly  accused  is  a  righteous 
man." 

Gregory  shook  his  head. 

''  May  the  Lord  pardon  me  if  I  am  deceived,"  he 
said  slowly,  his  piercing  eye  still  on  Julian.  "  But 
remember,  Basil,  how  often  the  Devil  himself,  the 
father  of  lying,  has  appeared  to  men  in  guise  of  an 
angel!" 


XV 


ON  the  base  of  a  dolphin-shaped  lamp  were  ranged 
the  curling  irons  of  a  barber.  The  lamplight 
was  growing  pale,  for  rays  of  morning,  falling  through 
silken  window-curtains,  were  gradually  filling  the 
sleeping  chamber  with  deep  violet  hues.  The  curtains 
were  dyed  in  the  richest  hyacinthine  purple  of  Tyre. 

'*  '  Hypostasis,'  '  hypostasis  '  ?  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  the  divine  hypostasis,  or  essence,  or  personality, 
of  the  Trinity  ?  No  human  being  can  form  any  con- 
ception. I  myself  have  n't  slept  a  wink  in  thinking 
over  it  the  whole  night.  I  arrived  at  no  conclusion 
but  an  atrocious  headache.  Boy,  give  me  towels  and 
soap!  " 

So  spoke  a  personage  with  a  tall  headdress  like  a 
mitre  and  the  pontifical  aspect  of  a  high-priest  or  Asiatic 
tyrant.  He  was  chief  barber  and  wig-maker  in  attend- 
ance on  the  sacred  person  of  Constantius.  The  razor 
in  his  skilful  hands  was  flitting,  with  an  incomparable 
grace  and  lightness,  over  the  Imperial  chin.  He  was 
engaged  upon  a  sacred  mystery.  In  attendance  on 
each  side  were  innumerable  tubiculaidi,  slaves  holding 
vases,  essences,  oils,  and  napkins,  and  two  youths 
bearing  fans.  Supervising  all  these,  Kusebius,  grand 
chamberlain  of  the  private  apartments,  stood  by.  He 
was  the  most  powerful  man  in  the  Empire. 

During  the  ceremony  of  barbification,  as  an  emperor's 
shaving  must  be  called,  the  two  youths  refreshed  the  il- 
lustrious patient  by  means  of  great  fans,  each  six- winged 

135 


13^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

like  the  seraphim,  or  the  ripides  with  which  deacons 
fan  away  flies  from  a  sacramental  chalice,  during 
the  intoning  of  the  liturgy.  The  barber  had  scarcely 
finished  the  Kmperor's  right  cheek  and  was  be- 
ginning the  left,  which  had  been  anointed  with  an 
Arabian  essence  named  ''the  foam  of  Aphrodite." 
Leaning  to  the  ear  of  Constantius  he  whispered  cau- 
tiously : 

"  Ah  !  Well-beloved  of  God,  your  universal  intelli- 
gence alone  can  determine  what  this  hypostasis,  this 
mysterious  personality  of  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost 
may  mean.  Don't  listen  to  the  bishops  !  Act  as 
pleases  yourself,  and  not  as  it  may  please  them.  But 
Athanasius,  that  patriarch  of  Alexandria,  must  be 
punished  as  a  blasphemous  rebel.  Almighty  God,  the 
Creator  Himself,  will  instruct  your  Holiness  as  to 
what,  and  in  what  manner,  your  subjects  ought  to 
believe.  In  my  humble  opinion  the  Arians  are  per- 
fectly right  in  asserting  that  there  was  a  time  when  the 
*  Son  *  did  not  exist.     And  so  consubstantiality  ..." 

But  at  this  moment  Constantius  was  staring  at  him- 
self in  the  great  polished  silver  mirror,  and  rubbing  his 
hand  over  the  silky  new  shaven  region  on  his  right 
cheek.     He  interrupted — 

"  I  don't  think  that  's  very  smooth  !— eh  !  I  think 
you  might  go  over  it  again.  What  were  you  saying 
to  me  about  consubstantiality  ?  " 

The  barber,  who  had  received  a  talent  of  gold  from 
the  Court  bishops  Ursatius  and  Valentine  to  prepare  the 
Kmperor  for  the  new  profession  of  faith,  was  murmur- 
ing insinuatingly  in  the  ear  of  Constantius  and  wielding 
his  razor  with  the  most  persuasive  delicac3%  when  at 
this  moment  the  chief  of  the  silentiarii^  Paul,  surnamed 
Catena,  approached  the  !E)mperor. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  137 

He  was  so  called  because  his  infamous  system  of  re- 
ports enwound  any  chosen  victim  in  chains  well-nigh 
indissoluble.  His  effeminate  face  was  beardless  and 
handsome,  and  judged  by  externals  he  seemed  the 
angel  of  humilit3^  His  dark  eyes  were  full  of  languor; 
his  walk,  a  noiselessly  graceful  feline  motion.  He  wore 
crosswise  over  the  shoulder  a  wide  dark  blue  ribbon — 
sign  of  special  Imperial  favour. 

Paul  Catena  with  a  subtle  and  authoritative  gesture 
waved  the  barber  away,  and  whispered  in  the  ear  of 
Constantius — 

'*  A  letter  from  Julian  !  Intercepted  to-night. 
Deign  to  read  it." 

Constantius  greedily  snatched  the  letter  from  the 
hands  of  Paul,  opened  it,  and  read.  Disappointed,  he 
muttered — 

'  *  Mere  trash  —  trifles  ;  he  sends  a  present  of  a  hun- 
dred grapes  to  a  sophist  and  writes  the  praises  of  the 
fruit  and  of  the  number  *  a  hundred.'  " 

*'  Ah  !  a  ruse  !  "  said  Catena. 

"Really?"  asked  Constantius;  **  what  proofs  are 
there?" 

"  None." 

*'  Then  he  's  either  exceedingly  cunning  or  indeed 

j> 

**  What  does  your  Eternity  mean  ?  " 

"  Or,  in  fact,  he  is  innocent." 

**  As  your  Majesty  pleases,"  stammered  Paul. 

*  *  As  I  please  f  I  desire  to  be  just,  simply  just.  Are 
you  not  aware  of  that  ?     I  must  have  proofs  ..." 

*'  Wait  ;  we  shall  find  them." 

Another  informer  came  near,  a  young  Persian  named 
Mercurius,  court- pantler,  little  more  than  a  lad.  He 
was  feared  not  less  than  Paul  Catena  and  had  been 


J38  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

pleasantly  nicknamed  "  Chief  Diviner  of  Dreams.' 
If  the  prophetic  dream  could  be  twisted  into  any  mean, 
ing  even  remotely  unfavourable  for  the  person  of  the 
Emperor,  Mercurius  would  make  careful  notes  of  it  and 
hasten  to  make  a  report.  Many  a  victim  had  paid  with 
their  goods  and  their  prospects  for  the  imprudence  of 
dreaming  what  they  had  no  business  to  dream  ;  and, 
aware  of  this,  prudent  courtiers  would  declare  them- 
selves martyrs  to  insomnia,  enviers  of  the  legendary 
dwellers  in  Atlantis,  who,  according  to  Plato,  are  lapt 
in  slumber  without  visions.  The  Persian  signed  to  a 
distance  two  Ethiopian  eunuchs  who  were  knotting  the 
laces  of  the  Emperor's  green  and  gilt  shoes.  He  kissed 
the  feet  of  the  sovereign,  and  as  it  were  basked  a  mo- 
ment in  his  eyes,  like  a  dog  who  affectionately  gazes 
up  for  his  master's  orders. 

''May  your  Eternity  forgive  me,"  whispered  little 
Mercury,  ''  I  could  not  refrain  from  running  to  your 
presence.  Gaudentius  has  had  a  bad  dream  !  You 
appeared  to  him  in  a  torn  chlamys  and  crowned  with 
blasted  ears  of  corn.  ..." 

*'  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  The  blasted  ears  announce  famine,  and  the  torn 
chlamys  ...     I  dare  not  ..." 

''Sickness?" 

"  Worse  still,  I  'm  afraid,  if  possible.  Gaudentius' 
wife  confessed  to  me  that  he  had  C9nsulted  the  augurs. 
God  knows  what  they  told  him  1  ' ' 

"  Well,  well  !  We  will  discuss  it.  Come  again  this 
evening." 

"  No!  I  will  come  this  afternoon.  Permit  me  to 
mention  a  slight  matter,  something  not  so  grievous. 
.  .  .   There  is  also  the  matter  of  the  table-cloths.  ..." 

"  What  table-cloths  ?  " 


\ 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  139 

**  Have  you  forgotten  ?  At  a  supper  in  Aquitaine 
the  table  was  spread  with  two  table-covers  with  purple 
borders  —  borders  as  wide  as  those  on  the  Imperial 
chlamys!  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  they  were  more  than  two 
fingers  wide  ?  Remember,  I  've  authorised  the  width 
of  two  fingers." 

*'  Ah,  much,  much  wider  I  fear  !  It  was  a  regular 
Imperial  chlamys.     Can  such  sacrilege  be  permitted  ?  " 

Mercury  did  not  succeed  however  in  reciting  all  his 
reports  : 

*'  At  Delphi  a  monster  has  been  born  —  four  ears, 
four  eyes,  two  snouts,  all  covered  with  hair.  The 
augurs  say  it  is  a  bad  omen — that  the  Holy  Empire 
will  be  split  up.  ..." 

"  We  shall  see  !  we  shall  see  !  Write  it  all  down  in 
due  order  and  submit  it  to  me." 

The  Emperor  went  on  with  his  morning  toilet.  He 
consulted  his  mirror  again,  and  with  a  fine  camel's- 
hair  brush  took  up  a  morsel  of  rouge  from  the  casket 
of  filigree  silver,  shaped  like  a  reliquary  and  crowned 
by  a  little  cross,  at  his  elbow.  Constantius  was  de- 
voutly religious;  enamelled  crosses  and  the  monogram 
of  Christ  adorned  every  trinket  in  his  private  rooms. 
Exquisite  and  expensive  paint  called  purpurissima, 
extracted  from  the  scum  on  the  purple  mollusc  while 
in  a  state  of  ebullition,  was  specially  prepared  for  him. 
Constantius  adroitly  spread  a  faint  flush  of  this  over 
his  withered  brown  cheek.  From  the  room  called 
Porphyria,  where  the  regal  vestments  were  kept  in  a 
pentagonal  wardrobe,  eunuchs  bore  forth  the  Imperial 
dalmatic.  It  was  stiff",  heavy  with  gold,  encrusted  with 
precious  stones,  and  with  lions  and  dragons  embroid- 
ered on  its  amethystine  purples. 


I40  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

In  the  main  hall  of  the  palace  on  that  day  was  to  be 
held  the  great  Arian  council.  The  Emperor  slowly 
took  his  way  thither  along  a  gallery  of  pierced  and 
fretted  marble.  Palace  guards,  or  palatines,  two-deep 
formed  a  long  lane,  mute  as  statues  and  holding  lances 
fourteen  cubits  long  crossed  above  the  head  of  their 
master,  as  he  paced  in  state  between  them.  Constan- 
tine's  banner  of  cloth  of  gold,  the  Labarum,  surmounted 
by  the  monogram  of  Christ,  shone  rustling  behind, 
borne  by  the  officer  of  the  Imperial  largesses  {comes 
sacrarum  largitionuni).  Mute  bodyguards  {silentiarii) 
heralded  the  procession,  imposing  silence  on  everyone 
they  met.  \ 

In  the  gallery  the  Emperor  encountered  the  Empress 
Eusebia  Aurelia.  She  was  a  mature  woman  with  a 
pale  and  weary  face,  delicate  and  noble  features,  a  mis- 
chievous raillery  sometimes  kindling  her  keen  eyes. 
Crossing  her  hands  on  the  omophorium  covered  with 
sapphires  and  heart-shaped  rubies,  the  Empress  bowed 
profoundly  and  pronounced  the  habitual  morning 
salutation : 

"  I  am  come  for  the  joy  of  beholding  you,  O  spouse 
well-beloved  of  the  Lord  !  How  has  your  Holiness 
deigned  to  sleep?" 

Then,  at  a  sign  from  her,  the  attendant  maids  of 
honour  drew  to  a  distance  and  she  murmured  sweetly, 
in  a  simpler  and  sincerer  tone — 

**  Julian  is  to  be  received  by  you  to-day.  Receive 
him  kindly  !  Don't  believe  these  spying  reports.  He 
is  a  poor  innocent  boy.  God  will  repay  you,  sire,  if 
you  grant  him  favour." 

**  You  ask  favour  to  him  as  a  favour  to  yourself  ?  " 

The  husband  and  wife  exchanged  a  rapid  glance. 

**  I  know,"  she  said,  '*  you  always  have  confidence 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  141 

in  me  ;  let  it  be  so  now.  Julian  is  a  faithful  slave. 
Don't  refuse  me  ...     Be  kind  to  him  ..." 

And  she  gratified  him  with  one  of  those  smiles  which 
hitherto  had  wielded  irresistible  power  over  the  heart 
of  Constantius. 

In  the  portico,  which  was  separated  from  the  great 
hall  by  hangings  (behind  w^hicli  the  Emperor  used  to 
ensconce  himself  to  hear  what  was  going  on  at  the 
councils),  a  monk,  wearing  a  cruciform  tonsure  and  in 
a  hooded  robe  of  coarsest  drugget,  came  near.  It  was 
Julian.    , 

* '  I  salute  my  benefactor,  the  triumphant  and  glorious 
Emperor  Augustus  Constantius.  May  your  Holiness 
pardon  me  !  " 

**  We  are  happy  to  receive  you,  my  son." 

Julian's  cousin  magnanimously  extended  his  hand 
to  Julian's  lips.  Julian  kissed  the  hand  dyed  with  the 
blood  of  his  father,  of  his  brother,  of  all  his  relatives. 
Then  he  rose  erect,  pale  and  with  sparkling  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  enemy.  He  gripped  the  handle  of  a  poniard 
hidden  under  his  robe.  The  grey  eyes  of  the  Emperor 
lighted  with  pride  and  cautious  malice,  seldom  dropping 
their  scrutiny.  He  was  a  head  shorter  than  Julian, 
large- shouldered,  solidly-built,  and  bandy-legged  like 
an  old  cavalry  soldier.  The  tight  brown  skin  over  his 
temples  was  disagreeably  glossy.  The  thin  lips  were 
severely  closed  with  the  expression  of  folk  that  set 
order  and  punctuality  above  all  other  virtues — the  ex- 
pression of  a  pedant  and  a  schoolmaster. 

To  Julian  he  appeared  detestable.  He  felt  an  animal 
fury  getting  the  better  of  him,  and,  unable  to  utter  a 
word,  his  eyes  fell  and  he  breathed  with  diflSculty. 

Constantius  smiled,  imagining  the  young  monk  un- 
able to  bear  the  superhuman  majesty  of  the  Imperial 


142         .  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

glance.    With  ostentatious  benevolence  lie  continued  — 

**  Fear  nothing  !  Go  in  peace  !  Our  kindness  shall 
bring  no  danger  upon  you.  On  the  contrary  we  shall 
from  this  day  forth  heap  bounties  on  our  cousin  who  is 
an  orphan. ' ' 

Julian  bowed  and  proceeded  into  the  hall  of  council  ; 
and  the  Emperor,  hidden  behind  draperies,  lent  an 
ironic  and  attentive  ear  to  the  debate  beginning 
within. 

He  immediately  recognised  the  voice  of  the  principal 
dignitary  of  the  Imperial  post,  Gaudentius.  It  was  he 
who  had  suffered  from  the  bad  dream. 

''  One  council  treads  on  the  heels  of  another," 
Gaudentius  was  complaining  ;  **  now  it  's  at  Sirmio, 
now  it  's  at  Sardis,  now  at  Antioch,  and  now  here  at 
Constantinople.  They  discuss  and  discuss,  but  never 
come  to  an  understanding.  And  I  would  ask  you,  for 
pity's  sake,  to  consider  the  horses  that  have  to  carry 
these  gentlemen  about  !  Out  of  a  relay  of  ten  horses 
you  will  hardly  find  one  who  is  not  foundered  by  the 
bishops.  Another  five  councils,  and  my  beasts  will 
only  be  fit  for  the  knacker!  s  yard— not  a  car  will  have 
a  wheel  on  it.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all,  you  '11  see  that  the 
bishops  will  still  be  at  loggerheads  and  boggling  at  the 
Trinity  !  " 

"  Why  then,  Gaudentius,  don't  you  send  in  a  formal 
report  on  the  subject  to  the  Emperor  ?  " 

' '  Nobody  would  believe  me.  I  should  be  accused 
of  irreligion  and  lack  of  respect  for  the  crying  needs 
of  the  Church." 

In  the  vast  round  hall,  crowned  by  a  cupola  on 
columns  of  Phrygian  marble,  the  heat  was  already 
stifling.  Slanting  sun  rays  fell  in  through  uncurtained 
windows.     The  noise  of  voices  was  like  the  buzzing  of 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  143 

a  swarm  of  bees.  The  Imperial  golden  seat  —  sella 
aurea  —  was  prepared  on  a  dais.  It  rested  on  lions' 
paws  of  carved  ivory,  crossed  like  those  of  the  curule 
chairs  of  Roman  consuls. 

Close  to  the  throne,  the  high-priest  Paphnutis,  with 
a  face  empurpled  by  argument,  was  declaring — 

'*  For  my  part,  I  shall  keep  to  the  opinions  my 
fathers  taught  me !  According  to  the  creed  of  our  holy 
father  Athanasius,  patriarch  of  Alexandria,  we  must 
worship  a  single  God  in  a  Trinity,  and  the  Trinity  in 
a  single  God  ;  the  Father  is  God  ;  the  Son  is  God  ; 
the  Holy  Ghost  is  God,  and  nevertheless  they  form 
together  but  one  God  !  ' ' 

And  as  if  he  was  smashing  an  invisible  enemy  he 
brought  down  his  enormous  right  fist  into  his  left-hand 
palm  and  glared  triumphantly  round  the  assembly. 

*'  That  tradition  have  I  received  from  my  fathers, 
and  that  tradition  I  will  keep  !  " 

'*  Who  is  it  ?  What  's  he  saying  ?  "  asked  Ozius,  a 
man  of  a  hundred  years  old,  who  had  been  alive  in  the 
time  of  the  council  of  Nicsea.  **  Where  's  my  trum- 
pet ?  "  Harrowing  perplexity  could  be  read  on  his 
face.  He  was  deaf,  almost  blind.  The  deacon  who 
accompanied  him  set  the  ear-trumpet  to  his  ear. 

A  certain  pale  thin  monk  seized  Paphputis  by  the 
surplice— 

"  Father  Paphnutis,"  he  shouted  to  drown  the  gen- 
eral clamour,  * '  what  is  all  this  about  ?  .  .  .  It  is  a 
question  of  a  single  word  ;  is  not  that  so  ?  "  and  forth- 
with he  began  to  narrate  terrible  scenes  he  had  wit- 
nessed in  Alexandria  and  Constantinople.  The  Arians 
had  opened  with  wooden  pincers  the  mouths  of  those 
unwilling  to  receive  the  Sacrament  in  heretic  churches, 
and  forced  the  host  between  their  lips.     Mere  children 


144  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

were  subjected  to  inquisition  ;  the  breasts  of  women 
were  crushed  under  leaden  weights  and  branded  with 
live  iron.  In  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Apostles  so  hor- 
rible a  struggle  had  taken  place  between  Arians  and 
Orthodox  that  the  blood,  overflowing  the  cistern  which 
received  the  drainage  of  the  place,  had  poured  down 
the  steps  in  front  of  the  western  fagade  and  streamed 
into  the  market-square.  At  Alexandria  the  governor 
Sebastian  had  caused  virgins  to  be  beaten  with  thorn 
branches,  so  that  many  of  them  had  succumbed  and 
their  bodies  lay  unburied  outside  the  city  gates.  All 
this  contention  was  over  a  single  letter,  an  iota. 

'*  Father  Paphnutis,"  argued  the  pale  monk,  "  for 
an  iota  !  The  word  '  substantial '  does  not  even  occur 
in  the  holy  Scripture.  What  are  we  then  torturing 
each  other  about  ?     Think,  Father  ;  it  is  horrible  !  '  * 

'*  Then,"  interrupted  the  Arch-priest  impatiently, 
**  must  we  be  reconciled  with  those  impious  dogs  who 
will  not  hunt  out  of  their  pestilent  hearts  the  doctrine 
that  there  was  a  moment  when  the  Son  of  God  did  not 
exist?" 

''  '  One  Shepherd  and  one  Flock,'  "  the  monk  re- 
turned :  '*  Let  us  make  them  some  concessions  !  " 

But  Paphnutis  refused  to  hear  anything,  vociferating 
till  the  veins  of  his  neck  almost  burst — 

' '  Let  the  enemies  of  God  be  silent !  Never  will  I 
give  in  !  Anathema  on  the  Arian  heresy  !  Such  have 
I  received  the  faith  from  my  fathers,  and  such  will  I 
keep  it  !  " 

Ozius  the  centenarian  wagged  approvingly  his  white 
head  and  long  beard.  On  the  other  side  of  the  hall 
two  archdeacons  were  talking  together. 

**  You  keep  very  calm,  Father  Dorophas.  Why  are 
you  taking  no  part  in  discussion  to-day  ?  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  145 

**  My  voice  is  gone,  Father  Flavius.  I  am  too 
hoarse  with  anathematising  the  cursed  sectaries." 

In  another  group  the  deacon  from  Antioch,  Aetius, 
a  bold  and  fervent  disciple  of  Arius,  regarded  as  an 
atheist  for  his  audacious  and  scoffing  interpretations  of 
the  Trinity,  was  holding  forth. 

The  career  of  Aetius  had  been  remarkable  for  its 
extraordinary  variety.  At  first  a  slave,  he  had  after- 
wards become  by  turns  a  coppersmith,  a  sailor,  a 
rhetorician ,  a  pupil  and  teacher  of  Alexandrian  philo- 
sophy, and  finally  a  deacon. 

*'  God  the  Father  is  in  His  substantial  essence  differ- 
ent from  His  Son,"  Aetius  was  saying  with  a  smile 
and  evident  gusto,  to  the  dismay  of  his  hearers. 
**  The  Trinity  has  differentiations,  degrees  of  glory, 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  personalities  comprised 
in  it.  The  word  *  God '  cannot  be  used  of  the  Son, 
because  He  has  never  applied  it  to  Himself.  The  Son 
has  never  even  comprehended  the  essence  of  the  Father, 
because  it  is  impossible  for  Him  who  had  a  beginning 
to  imagine  that  which  has  neither  beginning  nor 
end." 

"  Blaspheme  not  !"  shouted  an  indignant  bishop. 
"  Where  is  this  Satanic  boldness  going  to  stop,  my 
brethren?" 

"  Brag  not  the  simple-minded  into  perdition  by  your 
speeches  ! ' '  shrieked  another. 

'*  Prove  me  wrong  by  philosophic  reasoning,  and  I 
will  acquiesce.  But  shouts  and  insults  are  proof  of 
nothing  but  impotence,"  replied  Aetius  calmly. 

**  It  is  written  in  the  Scriptures  ..." 

''  What  is  that  to  me  ?  God  has  given  intelligence 
to  man  that  He  himself  might  be  understood.  I 
believe  in  logic  of  argument  and  not  in  texts.     Reason 


14^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

with  me  on  the  basis  of  the  syllogisms  and  categories 
of  Aristotle  ..." 

And  with  a  contemptuous  smile  he  threw  his  surplice 
around  him  like  the  cynic  mantle  of  Diogenes. 

Some  bishops  were  beginning  to  speak  in  favour  of 
a  universal  creed  in  which  mutual  concession  should 
be  made,  when  the  Arian  Narcissus  of  Neronia,  a  pro- 
found expert  in  all  statutes,  creeds,  and  canons  of  the 
councils,  intervened  in  discussion.  He  was  a  man 
little  liked,  suspected  of  adultery  and  usury,  but  ad- 
mired by  everyone  for  his  theological  erudition. 

* '  That  is  a  flat  heresy  !  "  he  declared  decisively. 

* '  Why  is  it  a  heresy  ?  ' '  demanded  several  voices. 

"  Because  the  assizes  of  Paphlagonia  have  already  so 
laid  it  down." 

**  The  assizes  of  Paphlagonia?"  repeated  the  des- 
perate bishops;  "  we  had  clean  forgotten  them.  What 
is  to  be  done  now  ?  " 

''  May  God  have  pity  on  us  miserable  sinners!  "  the 
good  bishop  Ozius  was  muttering  ;  **  I  can  no  longer 
understand  anything;  I  can't  get  out  of  the  labyrinth; 
my  head  is  buzzing,  my  ears  singing  with  Greek  words; 
I  'm  walking  in  a  fog  and  don't  know  myself  what  I 
believe  in  and  what  I  disbelieve  ;  what  is  heresy  and 
what  is  not.  .  .  .  Jesus  help  us!  .  .  .  We  are  falling 
into  the  snares  of  the  Devil." 

At  that  moment  the  hubbub  and  clamour  ceased. 
The  bishop  Ursatius  of  Singidion,  one  of  the  Emperor's 
favourites,  mounted  the  tribune.  He  was  holding  in 
his  hand  a  long  scroll  of  parchment.  Two  silentiarii, 
having  mended  their  fine  pens  of  Egyptian  reed, 
got  ready  to  write  down  the  conciliar  debate.  Ur- 
satius read  out  the  message  of  the  Emperor  to  the 
bishops — 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  147 

"  Constantius,  the  triumphant,  glorious,  and  eternal 
Augustus,  to  all  bishops  assembled  in  this  council  ..." 

The  Emperor  demanded  the  dismissal  of  Athanasius, 
the  patriarch  of  Alexandria,  whom  he  called  the  most 
useless  of  men,  the  traitor,  the  accomplice  of  the  in- 
solent and  abominable  Magnentius. 

The  courtiers,  Valentine,  Eusebius,  Axentius,  hast- 
ened to  sign  the  scroll.     But  a  murmur  arose. 

"  It  is  all  a  damnable  device  ;  a  trick  of  the  Arians  ! 
We  will  not  let  our  patriarch  suffer  ..." 

*  *  The  Emperor  calls  himself  eternal  .  .  .  nobody  is 
eternal  but  God  !     It  is  a  mockery  of  holy  things." 

Constantius,  lurking  behind  the  curtain,  heard  this 
last  speech  distinctly.  Thrusting  the  hangings  roughly 
by,  he  pushed  unexpectedly  into  the  hall.  The  lances 
of  the  guard  surrounded  him.  His  face  expressed 
anger.     A  heavy  silence  fell  upon  the  throng. 

"What  is  it,  what  is  it?"  the  blind  Ozius  kept 
whispering  in  restless  perplexity. 

**  Fathers,"  the  Emperor  began,  bridling  his  anger, 
"  allow  me,  the  servant  of  the  Most  High,  to  use 
my  zeal  under  His  providence  to  a  successful  issue. 
Athanasius  is  a  rebel,  the  chief  violator  of  universal 
concord  and  oecumenical  peace." 

Fresh  murmurs  arose.  Constantius  was  silent  and 
ran  a  surprised  look  over  the  array  of  bishops.  A 
voice  shouted — 

"  Anathema  upon  the  abominable  Arian  heresy  !  " 

**  The  faith  against  which  you  revolt,"  replied  the 
Emperor,  "  is  my  faith.  If  it  is  heretical,  why  has 
the  omnipotent  God  assigned  victory  to  us  over  all  our 
enemies  ?  Constans,  Vetranio,  Gallus,  the  abominable 
Magnentius,  why  has  God  Himself  placed  the  power 
over  the  world  in  our  sacred  hands  ?  " 


14^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  bishops  were  dumb ;  then  the  courtier  Valentius, 
bishop  of  Mursa,  bowing  with  great  servility — 

*'  God  will  unveil  the  truth  to  your  wisdom,  sire, 
well-beloved  of  the  Lord  !  What  you  believe  cannot 
be  heresy.  Did  not  Cyril  of  Jerusalem  behold  a  rain- 
bow-surmounted cross  in  the  heavens  on  the  day  of 
your  victory  over  Magnentius  ?  " 

**  It  is  my  will,"  interrupted  Constantius,  rising 
from  the  throne.  ''  Athanasius  shall  be  laid  low  by 
the  power  God  has  entrusted  to  me.  Pray  that  all 
these  conflicts  and  controversies  may  cease,  that  the 
murderous  heresy  of  the  Sabseans,  the  partisans  of 
Athanasius,  may  be  destroyed,  that  the  truth  may 
shine  into  all  hearts  ..." 

Suddenly  the  Kmperor  grew  pale ;  the  words  expired 
on  his  lips. 

*'  What !  How  is  it  that  he  has  been  allowed  to 
enter?" 

He  pointed  to  a  tall  old  man  with  a  severe  and 
majestic  face.  It  was  the  bishop  Hilarion  of  Pictavia 
(Poitiers),  who  had  been  exiled  and  ruined  for  his 
faith,  one  of  the  greatest  enemies  of  the  Arian  Bm- 
peror.  He  had  come  to  the  council  unsummoned,  per- 
haps seeking  martyrdom.  The  old  man  raised  his 
hand  to  heaven  as  if  calling  down  malediction  upon 
the  head  of  the  Emperor,  and  his  powerful  voice 
thrilled  the  silent  crowd — 

**  Brothers,  Christ  must  be  about  to  descend,  for 
Antichrist  has  already  conquered,  and  that  Antichrist 
is  Constantius  !  He  does  not  break  your  backs  on  the 
wheel,  but  he  flatters  your  proud  bellies.  He  does  not 
throw  us  into  dungeons,  but  entices  us  into  his  palaces 
.  .  .  Emperor,  hearken !  I  say  to  you  what  I  have  said 
to  Nero,   Decius,    Maximian,   all  persecutors  of  the 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  149 

Church.  But  you  are  not,  like  them,  the  murderer  of 
men,  but  the  murderer  of  the  Divine  love  itself  !  Nero, 
Decius,  Maximian,  have  better  served  the  God  of  truth 
than  you  !  In  their  reign  we  conquered  the  Devil,  the 
blood  of  the  martyrs  flowed,  cleansing  the  earth,  and 
their  dead  bones  worked  miracles.  Whereas  you,  O 
King,  cruellest  of  the  cruel,  slay  and  yet  grant  us  not  the 
glory  of  death  .  .  .  Lord,  send  us  a  true  despot  like 
Nero,  and  let  the  kindly  arm  of  Thy  wrath  revive  again 
the  Church  dishonoured  by  the  kiss  of  this  Judas  !  " 

The  Emperor  sprang  to  his  feet — 

**  Seize  him  and  the  rebels!"  he  ejaculated,  half- 
choked  with  rage,  pointing  to  Hilarion. 

The  guards  flung  themselves  on  the  bishops. 

The  crowd  became  a  wild  and  indescribable  mob 
illumined  by  the  flashing  of  swords.  Roman  soldiers, 
snatching  off  the  breastplate,  stole,  and  chasuble  of 
Hilarion,  dragged  the  old  man  away.  Many  present 
rushed  in  mad  panic  to  the  doors,  fell,  and  were 
trampled  underfoot  by  the  rest.  One  of  the  recording 
clerks  leapt  on  the  sill  of  a  window,  but  a  soldier 
pinned  him  there  by  his  long  vestments  and  would  not 
release  him.  The  table  and  the  inkstands  were  upset, 
red  ink  poured  over  the  blue  jasper  floor,  and  voices 
shouted  at  the  sight  of  the  crimson  sea — 

''  Blood  !  blood  !  blood  !  " 

Others  howled — 

'*  Death  to  the  enemies  of  the  thrice-pious  Augus- 
tus !  " 

Paphnutis  in  a  thunderous  monotone  persisted  in 
crying  while  the  guards  dragged  him  away — 

'*  I  recognise  the  council  of  Nicaea!  .  .  .  Anathema 
on  the  Arian  heresy  !  " 

Others  screamed — 


150  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  Be  silent,  enemies  of  God  !  Anathema  !  the  coun- 
cil of  Nicaea  !  the  assizes  of  Sardis  !  the  canons  of 
Paphlagonia  !  " 

Blind  Ozius  remained  seated  motionless,  forgotten  by- 
all,  in  his  episcopal  chair,  murmuring  inaudibly — 

**  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  God,  have  pity  upon  us! 
What  is  the  matter,  my  brethren,  what  is  it  ?  " 

In  vain  he  stretched  feeble  hands  towards  his  terri- 
fied friends.  Nobody  saw  him,  nobody  heard  him  ; 
and  tears  streamed  down  his  aged  cheeks. 

Meanwhile  Julian  watched  all,  a  contemptuous  smile 
upon  his  lips,  full  of  inward  triumph. 

On  the  same  day,  late  in  the  evening,  in  a  quiet  and 
solitary  defile  two  Mesopotamian  monks  were  journey- 
ing afoot  together.  They  had  been  sent  by  Syrian 
bishops  to  the  council,  had  escaped  the  palatine  guards 
with  great  difficulty,  and  now,  their  minds  at  peace, 
were  proceeding  towards  Ravenna  to  embark  as  quickly 
as  possible  upon  the  ship  which  was  to  restore  them  to 
the  desert.  Fatigue  and  sadness  were  on  their  faces. 
Ephraim,  one  of  the  two,  was  extremely  old  ;  the 
other,  Pimenus,  a  lad. 

Ephraim  said  to  Pimenus — 

"  It  is  time  to  regain  the  desert,  brother.  Better  to 
hear  the  howling  of  jackal  and  lion  than  the  cry  that 
dinned  our  ears  in  the  Imperial  palace.  Happy  are 
those  who  speak  not.  Happy  those  who  hide  them- 
selves in  desert  places,  beyond  arguments  of  masters 
of  the  Church,  who  have  understood  the  uselessness  of 
words  ;  who  debate  nothing.  Happy  is  he  who  seeks 
not  to  understand  God's  mysteries,  but  who,  merging 
his  spirit  into  Thine,  sings  to  Thy  face,  O  Lord,  like 
a  harp;  understanding  how  difiicult  it  is  to  know,  how 
easy  to  love  Thee  ! ' ' 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  151 

Ephraim  was  silent,  and  Pimenus  murmured — 

''Amen!" 

The  quiet  of  night  enveloped  the  pair,  and  coura- 
geously, steering  by  the  stars,  the  two  monks  took 
their  way  eastwards  rejoicing  in  the  majesty  of  their 
barren  road. 


XVI 

THE  city  of  Milan  lay  basking  in  the  sun  ;  and  by 
every  street  the  crowd  was  turning  its  steps 
towards  the  chief  public  square. 

Tremendous  acclamations  ran  through  the  throng, 
and  in  the  triumphant  chariot,  drawn  by  twenty  horses 
white  as  swans,  appeared  the  Emperor.  His  chariot- 
seat  was  so  lofty  that  the  people  were  obliged  to  throw 
their  heads  back  to  behold  him.  His  robes,  besown 
with  precious  stones,  sparkled  dazzlingly  in  the  sun. 
In  his  right  hand  he  held  the  sceptre,  in  the  left  the 
Imperial  globe  crested  by  a  cross. 

Motionless  as  a  statue,  outrageously  painted,  he 
looked  straight  before  him  without  turning  his  head, 
which  was  held  stiff  as  in  a  vice.  During  the  whole 
journey,  and  despite  the  joltings  of  the  car,  the  Em- 
peror stirred  not  a  finger,  nor  coughed,  nor  blinked  the 
steady  stare  of  his  eyes. 

Constantius  had  acquired  this  immobility  by  years 
of  efifort,  and  was  particularly  proud  of  it,  considering 
it  an  indispensable  part  of  Imperial  etiquette.  On 
such  occasions  he  would  have  preferred  to  undergo 
torture  rather  than  betray  his  mortal  nature  by  sneez- 
ing, coughing,  or  wiping  off  the  sweat  which  stood  in 
beads  on  his  forehead. 

Although  squat  and  bow-legged  he  imagined  him- 
self gigantic.  When  the  chariot  disappeared  under 
the  arch  of  triumph,  not  far  .from  the  baths  of  Max« 
imian  Hercules,  the  Emperor  bowed  his  head  as  if  he 

152 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  153 

were  afraid  of  striking  his  head  against  the  lofty  gates 
which  would  have  freely  taken  a  Cyclops  beneath 
them. 

Each  side  of  the  road  was  lined  with  palatine  guards 
helmeted  and  cuirassed  in  gold,  the  two  ranks  of  the 
bodyguard  flashing  in  the  sun  like  streams  of  lightnings 

Round  the  Imperial  chariot  great  dragon-shaped 
standards  were  floating.  The  purple  stuff",  swollen  by 
the  wind  engulfed  in  the  gullets  of  the  monsters,  gave 
out  a  shrill  sound  like  the  hiss  of  snakes,  and  the  long 
purple  tails  of  the  dragons  wavered  to  and  fro  above 
the  people.  In  the  Forum  were  drawn  up  all  the 
legions  quartered  in  Milan.  Thunders  of  applause 
welcomed  the  Emperor.  Constantius  was  pleased. 
The  noise  had  neither  been  too  feeble  nor  too  tumultu- 
ous. Arranged  beforehand  according  to  the  strictest 
etiquette, the  soldiers  had  been  instructed  to  be  enthusi- 
astic with  moderation  and  respect. 

Giving  each  of  his  motions  a  kind  of  stiff  and  pedan- 
tic emphasis,  Constantius  solemnly  descended  from  the 
chariot  and  went  up  to  the  tribune  raised  above  the 
square.  It  was  draped  with  ragged  standards  of  old 
victories  and  studded  with  metal  eagles. 

The  trumpets  sounded  up  anew  in  the  call  denoting 
that  the  leader  desired  to  speak  to  his  army.  The 
Forum  was  instantly  hushed. 

^^Optimi  reipuhlioB  defensores  !  "  began  Constantius. 
(Excellent  defenders  of  the  Republic.) 

The  discourse  was  long-winded,  tedious,  full  of 
scholastic  flowers  of  rhetoric. 

Julian  in  Court  dress  now  ascended  the  steps  of  the 
tribune,  and  the  fratricide  invested  the  last  descendant 
of  Constantius  Chlorus  with  the  sacred  purple  of  the 
Caesars 


154  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  sunlight  filtered  through  the  thin  silk  when  the 
Emperor  raised  the  purple  to  enrobe  the  kneeling 
Julian.  The  rich  hue  tinged  the  pale  face  of  the  new 
Caesar,  who  murmured  inwardly  the  prophetic  verse 
of  the  Iliad — 

**  Eyes  closed  by  purple  death  and  puissant  Destiny  .  .  ." 

And  nevertheless  Constantius  was  welcoming  him: 

**  Recepisti  primcBvus  origi7iis  tuce  splendiduni  florem^ 
amatissime  mihi  omnmm  f rater. '  *  (Still  young,  you 
have  attained  already  the  flower  of  your  royal  birth, 
most  beloved  of  all  my  brothers!) 

An  enthusiastic  roar  rose  from  the  legions.  Con- 
stantius became  rather  gloomy;  that  shout  had  slightly 
exceeded  the  proper  bounds.  Julian  must  have  pleased 
the  soldiers. 

"  Glory  and  prosperity  to  Caesar  Julian  !  "  They 
cheered  louder  and  louder,  till  it  seemed  as  if  they 
would  never  cease. 

The  new  Caesar  thanked  the  legionaries  with  a  kindly 
smile,  and  every  soldier  clashed  his  buckler  against  his 
knee  as  a  sign  of  rejoicing. 

It  seemed  to  Julian  that  it  was  not  by  the  will  of  the 
Emperor,  but  by  the  will  of  the  gods,  that  he  had 
reached  this  eminence. 

^n  ?fi  yf>  yf»  5jC  5jC  5|C 

Every  evening  Constantius  was  in  the  habit  of  con- 
secrating a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  the  polishing  of  his 
nails.  It  was  one  of  the  few  toilet  delicacies  that  he 
permitted  himself,  being  sober,  unimaginative,  and 
rather  gross  than  effeminate  in  all  his  habits.  Paring 
his  nails  with  little  files,  polishing  them  with  minute 
brushes,  he  gaily  asked  his  favourite  eunuch,  the  grand 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  155 

chamberlain  Eusebius,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  of 
investiture — 

*'  How  soon  do  you  think  will  Julian  conquer  the 
Gauls?" 

*'  I  think,"  answered  Eusebius,  *'  that  the  next 
news  we  shall  receive  will  be  of  the  defeat  and  death 
of  that  young  man  !  " 

**  Really  ?  —  that  would  give  me  much  pain  !  But  I 
have  done,  don't  you  think,  everything  that  lay  in  my 
power.  .  .  .  Henceforth  he  has  only  himself  to 
blame  .  .  ." 

Constantius  smiled,  and  bowing  his  head  admired 
his  nails. 

' '  You  have  conquered  Magnentius, ' '  murmured  the 
eunuch,  "  you  have  conquered  Vetranio,  Constans, 
Gallus.  You  will  conquer  Julian.  Then  there  will  be 
but  one  shepherd,  one  flock,  God  and  you  alone." 

**  Yes,  yes.  But,  putting  Julian  on  one  side,  there 
is  still  Athanasius.  I  shall  never  be  happy  until,  living 
or  dead,  he  shall  have  fallen  into  my  hands." 

"  Julian  is  more  to  be  feared  than  Athanasius,  and 
you  have  invested  him  to-day  in  the  purple  of  death. 
Oh,  wisdom  of  Providence,  destroying  by  inscrutable 
means  all  the  enemies  of  Your  Eternity  !  Glory  be  to 
the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost, 
now  and  during  the  night  of  ages  !  ' ' 

*'  Amen,"  concluded  the  Emperor,  having  finished 
the  toilet  of  his  nails  and  thrown  away  the  last  minute 
brush.  He  approached  the  ancient  banner  of  Constan- 
tine,  the  Eabarum,  whfch  stood  always  in  the  sleeping- 
chamber,  knelt  down,  and  contemplating  the  monogram 
of  Christ  which  shone  in  the  flicker  of  the  still-burning 
lamp,  began  his  prayers.  He  accomplished  exactly  the 
prescribed  number  of   salves  and  signs  of   the  cross, 


156  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

addressing  God  with  an  imperturbable  laith,  as  one 
who  never  doubts  his  own  worth  and  acceptability. 

The  three-quarters  of  an  hour  of  devotions  having 
elapsed,  Constantius  arose  with  a  light  heart.  Eu- 
nuchs undressed  him.  He  lay  down  on  an  Imperial 
couch  propped  by  cherubim  of  silver  on  outspread 
wings,  and  fell  asleep  in  placid  innocence  with  a  child- 
like smile  on  his  lips. 


XVII 

AT  Athens,  in  one  of  the  most  frequented  cross* 
roads,  a  statue  modelled  by  Arsinoe — The  vic- 
torious Odavius  holding  up  the  head  of  Brutus  —  was 
exhibited  to  the  people,  and  the  Athenians  welcomed 
in  the  daughter  of  the  senator  Helvidius  Priscus  a 
renewer  of  the  art  of  their  golden  age.  But  the  special 
dignitaries  whose  business  was  to  keep  watch  on  the 
public  temper,  officers  strangely  but  rightly  nicknamed 
"  Inquisitors,"  reported  to  the  proper  quarters  that  the 
statue  might  arouse  liberal  sentiments  in  the  people. 
A  resemblance  to  Julian  was  discovered  in  the  face  of 
Brutus,  and  in  the  work  as  a  whole  a  criminal  allusion 
to  the  recent  punishment  of  Gallus.  Attempts  were 
made  to  discover  in  Octavius  some  analogy  to  the 
Emperor  Constantius.  The  affair  took  the  proportions 
of  an  act  of  treason,  and  almost  fell  into  the  hands  of 
Paul  Catena.  Luckily  the  Imperial  chanceries  sent 
direct  a  severe  order  to  the  local  magistrate,  that  not 
only  should  the  statue  disappear  from  the  crossroads, 
but  that  it  should  be  broken  to  pieces  under  the  eyes  of 
government  officials. 

Arsinoe  wished  to  hide  the  statue,  but  Hortensius 
was  in  such  mortal  affright  that  he  threatened  to  give 
up  his  ward  herself  to  the  informers. 

In  deep  disgust  at  the  degradation  oi  the  public, 
Arsinoe  allowed  them  to  do  with  her  work  everything 
that  Hortensius  desired,  and  masons  broke  up  the  figure. 

Arsinoe  hastily  left  Athens,  her  guardian  having 
157 


15^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

persuaded  her  to  follow  him  to  Rome,  where  friends 
had  long  promised  him  the  ofiSce  of  Imperial  quaestor. 
They  installed  themselves  in  a  house  not  far  from  the 
Palatine  Hill. 

Days  flowed  by  in  inactivity,  Arsinoe  realising  that 
there  was  no  longer  scope  for  the  greatness  and  freedom 
of  antique  art.  She  bore  in  mind  her  conversation 
with  Julian  at  Athens  ;  and  it  was  the  only  link  which 
restrained  her  from  suicide.  The  long  suspense  of  in- 
action seemed  to  her  intolerable.  In  moments  of  dis- 
couragement she  longed  to  have  done  with  it  all,  to 
leave  all,  to  set  out  for  the  Gallic  battlefield  and  at 
the  side  of  the  young  Caesar  attain  power,  or  perish. 

But  she  fell  seriously  ill.  In  the  long  and  calm  days 
of  convalescence  she  found  a  devoted  consoler  in  her 
most  faithful  adorer,  Anatolius,  a  centurion  of  the  Im- 
perial cavalry,  son  of  a  rich  merchant  of  Rhodes. 

He  was  a  Roman  centurion,  as  he  used  to  say  him- 
self, merely  as  the  result  of  a  mistake,  having  only 
taken  to  the  military  career  to  satisfy  the  empty-headed 
ambition  of  his  father,  who  desired  as  the  summit  of 
earthly  honour  to  see  his  son  clothed  in  gilt  armour. 

Evading  discipline  by  generous  gifts,  Anatolius 
passed  his  life  in  luxurious  idleness,  amidst  works  of 
art  and  books,  in  feastings  and  indolent  and  costly 
travel.  The  profound  lucidity  of  soul  which  had  char- 
acterised ancient  Epicureans  was  not  possessed  by  this 
modern.     He  complained  to  his  friends — 

'*  I  suffer  from  a  mortal  malady  ..." 

They  would  ask  him  dubiously — 

"  What  malady  ?  " 

And  he  would  say — 

**  What  you  call  my  spirit  of  irony  and  what  seems 
to  me  melancholy  madness." 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  159 

His  finely  cut  delicate  features  expressed  extreme 
fatigue.  Sometimes  he  would  awake  as  from  a  sleep, 
undertake  a  wild  excursion  with  fishermen  in  a  hurri- 
cane in  the  open  sea,  or  set  oJBT  to  hunt  wild  boar  and 
bear,  or  contemplate  hatching  a  plot  against  the  life  of 
Caesar,  or  seek  initiation  into  the  terrible  mysteries  of 
Mithra  and  Adonis.  On  such  occasions  he  was  capable 
of  astonishing  by  his  rashness  and  audacity  even  those 
persons  who  were  ignorant  of  his  ordinary  way  of  living. 

But  the  excitement  once  evaporated  he  would  return 
to  listlessness  and  lassitude,  still  more  sleepy,  still 
more  cynical  and  sad. 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  with  you,  Anatolius,"  Arsinoe 
used  to  say  to  him;  **  you  are  so  soft  that  people  might 
think  you  had  no  bones." 

But  she  felt  a  kind  of  Hellenic  grace  in  this  last  of 
the  Epicureans  ;  liked  to  read  in  his  weary  eyes  their 
melancholy  mockery  of  himself  and  everything  else. 
F^  would  say— 

*'  The  sage  can  extract  enjoyment  from  the  blackest 
melancholy,  as  bees  of  Hymettus  make  their  best 
honey  with  the  juice  of  bitterest  plants!"  and  his 
gossip  soothed  Arsinoe,  who  smilingly  used  to  call 
Anatoli  us  her  physician. 

In  reality  she  became  stronger,  but  never  returned  to 
her  studio.  The  sight  of  chips  of  marble  filled  her 
with  painful  memories. 

Meanwhile,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  speaking 
Hortensius  was  preparing  wonderful  public  games  in 
the  Flavian  Theatre,  in  honour  of  his  arrival  in  Rome. 
He  was  continually  travelling,  and  busy  receiving 
horses,  lions,  bears,  Scots  wolf-dogs,  crocodiles  from 
the  tropics,  and  with  these,  flocks  of  intrepid  hunters, 
skilled  riders,  comedians,  and  gladiators. 


i6o  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  date  of  the  performance  was  approaching,  and 
the  lions  had  not  arrived  from  Tarentum,  where  they 
had  disembarked.  The  bears  had  grown  thin,  fam- 
ished, timid  as  lambs. 

Hortensius  became  sleepless  with  anxiety. 

Two  days  before  the  festival,  the  gladiators,  Saxon 
prisoners,  proud  and  fearless  men  for  whom  he  had 
paid  a  colossal  sum,  considering  it  a  disgrace  to  serve 
as  a  sport  for  the  Roman  populace,  committed  suicide 
by  cutting  their  own  throats  at  night  in  their  prison. 

Hortensius,  at  that  unexpected  news,  nearly  went 
out  of  his  mind.  Now  all  hope  concentrated  itself  on 
the  crocodiles,  which  excited  the  special  curiosity  of 
the  mob. 

"  Have  you  tried  giving  them  newly- killed  hogs' 
flesh  ?  "  demanded  the  senator  of  the  slave  entrusted 
with  the  supervision  of  these  precious  beasts. 

''  Yes;  but  they  won't  eat  it." 

''  Have  you  tried  veal  ?  " 

*'  They  won't  touch  that,either." 

"  And  wheaten  bread  soaked  in  cream  ?  " 

*'  They  turn  away  from  it  and  go  to  sleep." 

**  They  must  be  ill  or  too  fatigued." 

**  We  've  even  opened  their  jaws  and  shoved  the 
food  down  their  throats.     They  cough  it  up  again. ' ' 

'*  Ah!  by  Jupiter,  those  foul  beasts  will  be  the  death 
of  me !  We  must  release  them  after  the  first  day  in  the 
arena  or  else  they  will  die  of  hunger,"  groaned  Hor- 
tensius falling  into  a  chair. 

Arsinoe  contemplated  him  with  envy.  He  at  least 
was  not  tired  of  life. 

She  passed  into  an  isolated  chamber  whence  the 
windows  looked  down  on  the  garden.  There  in  the 
calm  moonlight  her  young  sister  Myrrha,  who  was  now 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  i6i 

about  sixteen  years  old,  was  softly  touching  the  strings 
of  a  harp,  and  the  notes  were  falling  like  tears.  Ar- 
sinoe  kissed  Myrrha,  who  answered  her  by  a  smile 
without  ceasing  to  play.  A  loud  whistle  sounded 
behind  the  garden  wall  : 

"  It  is  he,"  said  Myrrha,  rising.     **  Come  quickly!  " 

She  grasped  Arsinoe's  hand  tightly.  The  two 
young  girls  threw  black  cloaks  over  their  shoulders 
and  went  out.  The  wind  was  chasing  the  clouds 
along,  and  the  moon,  sometimes  hidden,  sometimes 
shone  out  brightly.  Arsinoe  opened  a  door  in  the 
outer  wall  of  the  house.  A  young  man  wrapped  in  a 
monk's  hooded  mantle  was  awaiting  them. 

**  We  are  not  late,  Juventinus  ?  "  asked  Myrrha. 

**  I  was  afraid  that  you  were  not  coming!  " 

They  walked  long  and  rapidly  down  narrow  lanes, 
then  out  among  the  vineyards,  issuing  at  length  into 
the  Roman  plain.  In  the  distance  the  brick-built 
aqueduct  of  Servius  TuUius  was  outlined  against  the 
sky.     Juventinus  turned  round  and  said — 

**  Somebody  is  following  us  !  " 

The  two  young  girls  turned  round  also.  A  flood  of 
moonlight  fell  upon  them,  and  the  individual  follow- 
ing them  exclaimed  cheerfully — 

"  Arsinoe  !  Myrrha  !  .  .  .  And  so  I  have  found 
5^ou  again  !     Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  We  're  going  among  the  Christians,"  answered 
Arsinoe.  * '  Come  with  us,  Anatolius  ;  you  will  see 
some  curious  things." 

"  What  do  I  hear?  Among  the  Christians? — You 
have  always  been  their  enemy  ! ' '  wondered  the  cen- 
turion. 

"  With  age,  my  friend,  one  grows  better  and  more 
tolerant,  or  indifferent,  if  you  like  to  call  it  so.     This 


1 62  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

is  a  superstition  neither  better  nor  worse  than  other 
superstitions.  And  then  one  is  capable  of  a  good  deal 
when  bored.  I  am  going  among  them  for  Myrrha's 
sake;  it  pleases  her  ..." 

'*  Where  is  the  church  ?  We  're  out  in  the  plain," 
murmured  Anatolius. 

"  The  churches  are  destroyed  or  profaned  by  their 
fellow- Christians,  the  Arians,  who  believe  in  Christ 
otherwise  than  they  do.  You  must  have  heard  the 
debates  about  it  at  Court.  So  now  the  adversaries  of 
the  Arians  are  wont  to  pray  in  secret  in  subterranean 
vaults,  as  in  the  time  of  the  first  persecutions." 

Myrrha  and  Juventinus  had  lingered  a  little  behind 
the  others  ;  Arsinoe  and  Anatolius  could  talk  freely. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  the  centurion  with  a  nod 
towards  Juventinus. 

'*  The  last  scion  of  the  ancient  patrician  family  of 
the  Furii,"  answered  Arsinoe.  **  The  mother  wishes 
to  make  a  consul  of  him.  His  only  dream  is  to  flee 
into  some  Thebaid,  or  monkish  community  in  the 
desert,  to  spend  his  days  in  prayer.  He  loves  his 
mother  and  hides  himself  from  her  as  from  an  enemy." 

'*  The  descendants  of  the  Furii,  monks?  ...  'T  is 
a  queer  age,"  sighed  the  Epicurean. 

They  approached  the  a^^efiarium,  old  excavations  in 
crumbling  tufa,  and  went  down  narrow  steps  to  the 
bottom  of  the  quarry.  The  volcanic  blocks  of  red 
earth  looked  strange-hued  in  the  moonlight.  Juven- 
tinus took  a  little  clay  lamp  from  a  dark  niche,  and 
lighted  it;  the  long  flame  flickered  feebly  in  its  narrow 
gullet. 

They  entered  the  darkness  of  the  side  galleries  of 
the  arenarium.  Hollowed  by  the  ancient  Romans,  the 
quarry  was  large  and  spacious  and  descended  in  steep 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  163 

slopes.  It  was  therefore  pierced  by  numerous  galleries, 
for  the  use  of  workmen  in  transporting  the  tufa.  Ju- 
ventinus  led  his  companions  through  the  labyrinth 
and  halted  at  last  in  front  of  a  shaft  from  which  he 
lifted  the  coverlid  of  wood  ;  the  party  went  cautiously 
down  the  damp  and  slippery  steps  ;  at  the  bottom  was 
a  narrow  door  ;  Juventinus  knocked  ;  the  door  opened, 
and  a  greyheaded  monk  introduced  them  into  a  passage 
hollowed  in  harder  tufa.  The  walls  on  both  sides  from 
floor  to  vaulting  were  covered  with  slabs  of  marble,  the 
seals  of  tombs  in  which  coffins  {loculi)  were  ranged. 

At  every  step  folk  carrying  lamps  came  to  meet 
them.  By  the  flickering  light  Anatolius  read  with 
curiosity  on  one  of  these  stone  flags  :  ''  Dorotheus,  son 
of  Felix,  in  this  place  of  coolness,  light,  and  peace, 
reposes  "  ("  requiescit  in  loco  refrigii,  luminis,  pads  "). 
On  another:  "  Brethren,  disturb  not  my  deep  slum- 
ber." 

The  style  of  the  inscriptions  was  radiant  and  happy 
"  Sophronia,  beloved,  thou  art  alive  for  ever  in  God  " 
("  Sophronia,  dulcis,  semper  vivis  Deo  ").  And  a  little 
farther  on  :  *'  Sophronia  vivis  !  "  ("  Sophronia,  thou 
livest  !  ")  as  if  he  who  had  written  these  words  had  at 
length  realised  that  there  was  no  more  death. 

Nowhere  was  it  written  "  He  is  buried  here,"  but 
only  "  Here  is  laid  for  a  certain  time  "  (^depo situs).  It 
seemed  as  if  millions  of  people,  generation  upon  gen- 
eration, were  lying  in  this  place,  not  dead,  but  fallen 
asleep,  all  full  of  mysterious  expectation.  In  the 
niches  lamps  were  placed.  They  burned  in  the  close 
atmosphere  with  a  long  steady  flame  and  graceful  vases 
exhaled  penetrating  odours.  Nothing  but  the  faint 
smell  of  putrefying  bones,  which  escaped  by  fissures 
m  the  coffins,  gave  any  hint  of  death. 


1 64  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  passages  went  down  lower  and  lower,  curved  as 
round  an  amphitheatre  ;  and  here  and  there  in  the 
ceiling  a  large  aperture  gave  light  from  luminaria 
opening  on  the  country  without. 

Sometimes  a  weak  moon-ray  passing  down  the  lumi- 
naria would  strike  at  the  bottom  on  a  slab  of  marble 
covered  with  inscriptions. 

At  the  end  of  one  of  these  passages  they  saw  a  sex- 
ton who,  chanting  gaily,  was  hollowing  the  ground 
with  heavy  blows  of  his  pick.  Several  Christians  were 
standing  near  the  principal  inspector  of  the  tombs,  the 
fossor.  He  was  very  well  dressed  and  had  a  fat  cun- 
ning face.  The  fossor  had  inherited  a  right  freely  to 
dispose  of  a  gallery  of  catacombs,  and  to  sell  unoccu- 
pied sites  in  his  gallery,  which  was  all  the  more  appre- 
ciated because  in  it  were  buried  the  relics  of  St. 
I^aurence.  Although  rich,  the  fossor  was  keenly  bar- 
gaining, as  they  came  up,  with  a  wealthy  and  miserly 
leather-merchant.  Arsinoe  stopped  a  moment  to  hear 
the  discussion. 

*  *  And  my  tomb  will  be  far  away  from  the  relics  ? ' ' 
the  leather-dresser  was  asking  mistrustfully,  thinking 
of  the  big  sum  exacted  by  thefossof. 

"  No,  just  six  cubits  away." 

"Above  or  beneath  ?  " 

**  On  the  right-hand  side,  sloping  down  a  little.  It 's 
an  excellent  position  ;  I  don't  ask  a  penny  too  much. 
Though  you  be  as  sinful  as  you  please,  everything  will 
be  forgiven.  You  will  go  straight  into  the  heavenly 
kingdom." 

With  an  expert  hand  the  gravedigger  took  the 
measurements  for  the  tomb  as  a  tailor  measures  for  a 
coat,  the  leather-dresser  insisting  that  he  should  have 
as  much  room  as  possible  in  order  to  lie  in  comfort. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  165 

An  old  woman  approached  the  sexton. 

**  What  do  you  want,  mother  ?  " 

"  Here  's  the  money — the  extra  payment  I  " 

**  What  extra  payment  ?  " 

"  For  the  right-hand  tomb." 

**  Ah,  I  see  ;  you  don't  want  the  crooked  one  ?  '* 

**  No  ;  my  old  bones  crack  at  the  very  idea  of  th^ 
crooked  one." 

In  the  catacombs,  and  especially  near  the  relics,  so 
much  value  was  set  upon  grave-sites  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  contrive  slanting  tombs  which  were  leased  to 
the  poor. 

'*  God  knows  how  long  one  will  have  to  wait  for  the 
resurrection,"  the  old  woman  was  explaining  ;  ''  and 
if  I  took  a  tomb  on  the  slant  it  would  be  all  very  well 
to  begin  with,  but  when  I  got  tired  it  would  n't  do  at 
all." 

Anatolius  listened  in  astonishment. 

**  It  is  much  more  curious  than  the  mysteries  of 
Mithra,"  he  observed  to  Arsinoe  with  a  languid  smile. 
"  Pity  that  I  did  n't  know  it  sooner.  I  've  never  seen 
such  an  amusing  cemetery." 

They  went  on  into  a  rather  large  chamber  called  the 
cubicula  of  consolation.  A  multitude  of  small  lamps 
were  burning  on  the  walls.  The  priest  was  at  the 
evening  office,  the  stone  lid  of  a  martyr's  tomb  placed 
under  an  arched  vault  {arcosolium)  serving  as  altar. 
There  were  many  of  the  faithful  in  long  white  robes, 
every  face  serenely  happy.  Myrrha,  kneeling  with 
eyes  full  of  love,  was  gazing  at  the  Good  Shepherd 
pictured  on  the  ceiling  of  the  chamber.  In  the  cata- 
combs early  Christian  customs  had  been  revived,  so 
that  after  the  liturgy  all  present,  looking  on  themselves 
as  brothers  and  sisters,  gave  each  other  the  kiss  of 


i66  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

peace.  Arsinoe  following  the  general  example  with  a 
smile  kissed  Anatoli  us. 

Then  all  four  climbed  again  toward  the  upper 
storeys,  whence  they  could  take  their  way  to  the 
secret  retreat  of  Juventinus,  an  old  pagan  tomb,  a 
columbarium,  lying  at  some  distance  from  the  Appian 
Way.  There,  while  waiting  for  the  ship  which  was  to 
take  him  to  Egypt,  the  land  of  holy  anchorites,  he  was 
living  hidden  from  the  searches  of  his  mother  and  of 
government  officials.  He  lodged  with  Didimus,  a 
good  old  man  from  the  I^ower  Thebaid,  to  whom 
Juventinus  gave  blind  and  unquestioning  obedience. 

Here  they  found  Didimus  squatting  on  his  heels, 
weaving  basket-work.  The  moon-rays,  filtering 
through  a  narrow  opening,  glinted  on  his  white  hair 
and  long  beard.  From  top  to  bottom  of  the  walls  of 
the  columbarium  were  little  niches  like  pigeons'  nests, 
and  each  of  these  contained  a  mortuary  urn. 

Myrrha,  of  whom  the  old  man  was  very  fond,  kissed 
his  withered  hand  respectfully,  and  prayed  him  to  tell 
her  some  story  about  the  hermit  fathers  of  the  desert. 
Nothing  pleased  her  better  than  these  wonderful  and 
terrible  tales  by  Didimus. 

The  company  grouped  themselves  round  the  white- 
headed  old  man,  Myrrha  watching  him  with  feverish 
eyes  and  feeble  hands  clasped  to  her  heaving  breast. 
Nothing  was  heard  save  his  voice  and  the  distant  hum 
of  Rome,  when  suddenly,  at  the  inner  door  communi- 
cating with  the  catacomb,  a  knock  was  heard. 

Juventinus  rose,  went  to  the  door  and  asked,  with- 
out opening  it — 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

No  answer  came,  but  a  still  gentler  knock  as  of 
entreaty. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  167 

With  great  precaution  Juventinus  held  the  door  ajar, 
shuddered  and  recoiled.  A  woman  of  tall  stature  came 
into  the  columbarium.  Long  white  vestments  enveloped 
her  and  a  veil  hid  her  face.  Her  gait  was  that  of  one 
recovering  from  an  illness  or  of  a  very  old  woman. 
With  a  sudden  movement  she  raised  the  veil  and 
Juventinus  cried — 

''  My  mother  !" 

Didimus  rose,  a  severe  expression  on  his  counte- 
nance. 

The  woman  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  her  son  and 
kissed  them,  grey  tresses  falling  dishevelled  over  her 
lean  and  haggard  face,  which  bore  traces  of  high 
patrician  beauty.  Juventinus  took  the  head  of  his 
mother  between  his  hands  and  kissed  it. 

"  Juventinus  !  "  the  old  man  called. 

The  young  man  made  no  response. 

His  mother,  as  if  they  had  been  completely  alone, 
murmured  hastily  and  joyously — 

"  O  my  son,  I  thought  I  should  never  see  you  again  ; 
I  would  have  set  out  for  Alexandria — O  I  would  have 
found  you  even  in  the  desert  !  But  now  all  is  over,  is 
it  not  ?  Tell  me  that  you  will  not  go  !  Wait  until  I 
die  !     Afterwards  do  what  you  will.  ..." 

The  old  man  resumed — 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  Juventinus  ?  " 

**  Old  man,"  answered  the  patrician  mother,  **  you 
will  not  carry  off  a  son  from  her  that  bore  him  !  .  .  . 
Listen,  if  it  must  be  so,  I  will  deny  the  faith  of  my 
fathers  ;  I  will  believe  in  the  Crucified  !  .  .  I  will 
become  a  nun ! ' ' 

"  Ah,  pagan  !  thou  canst  not  understand  the  law  of 
Christ.  A  mother  cannot  be  a  nun,  nor  can  a  nun  be 
still  a  mother." 


1 68  The  Death  of  tl\e  Gods 

"  I  have  borne  him  in  anguish  ;  he  is  mine  !  '* 

**  It  is  not  the  soul,  but  the  body,  that  you  love.'* 

The  patrician  woman  cast  at  Didimus  a  look  full  of 
hatred. 

*'  Be  then  accursed  for  your  lying  speeches,"  she 
exclaimed  ;  **  accursed,  you  stealers  of  children  — 
tempters  of  the  guileless!  ye  black-robed  fearers  of  the 
celestial  light — slaves  of  the  Crucified  !  destroyers  of 
all  beauty  and  joy!  " 

Her  face  changed  ;  she  drew  her  son  yet  closer,  and 
said  chokingly — 

''  I  know  thee,  my  son  !  thou  wilt  not  go  .  .  .  thou 
canst  not  ..." 

Old  Didimus,  cross  in  hand,  stood  at  the  open  door 
leading  to  the  catacombs.     He  said  solemnly — 

'*  For  the  last  time,  and  in  the  name  of  God,  I  order 
you,  my  son,  to  follow  me  and  to  leave  her." 

Then  the  patrician  relaxed  her  hold  of  Juventinus, 
and  faltered— 

''  Then  go  !  I^et  it  be  so.  .  .  .  I^eave  me,  if  thou 
canst  !" 

Tears  flowed  no  longer  down  her  furrowed  cheeks  ; 
her  arms  fell  rigid,  with  a  heart-broken  gesture,  to  her 
sides.     She  waited.     All  were  silent. 

"  O  Lord,  help  me  .  .  .  inspire  me  !  "  Juventinus 
prayed  in  terrible  distress. 

"  He  who  will  follow  Me,  and  will  not  hate  father 
and  mother,  wife  and  children,  brother  and  sister,  and 
even  his  own  life,  can  never  be  My  disciple  !  " 

These  words  were  recited  by  Didimus,  turning  for 
the  last  time  towards  Juventinus— 

"  Remain  in  the  world  !  Thou  hast  rejected  Christ  ! 
Be  accursed  in  this  age  and  in  the  age  to  come  !  " 

"  No,  no  I     Cast  me  not  out,  father  !     I  am  on  your 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  169 

side.     Lord,  here  am  I,"  exclaimed  Juventinus  follow- 
ing  his  master. 

His  mother  made  no  arresting  movement  ;  not  a 
muscle  of  her  face  stirred  ;  but  when  the  noise  of  his 
footsteps  died  away  a  hoarse  sob  heaved  her  breast  and 
she  fell  into  a  swoon. 

"Open  —  in  the  name  of  the  most  holy  Emperor 
Constantius  ! ' ' 

It  was  the  summons  of  soldiery  sent  by  the  prefect 
to  hunt  the  Sabaean  rebels,  on  the  denunciation  of  the 
patrician  mother  of  Juventinus. 

With  a  powerful  lever  the  soldiers  attempted  to  prise 
open  the  door  of  the  columbarium,  shaking  the  edifice 
on  its  foundations.  The  little  silver  urns  vibrated 
plaintively  under  the  blows.  Half  of  the  door  gave 
way. 

Anatolitis,  Myrrha,  and  Arsinoe  rushed  into  the 
inner  gallery.  The  Christians  hurried  along  the  nar- 
row passages  like  ants  disturbed  in  their  mound,  mak 
ing  for  all  the  secret  outlets  communicating  with  the 
quarry.  But  Arsinoe  and  Myrrha,  unfamiliar  with 
the  exact  situation  of  the  galleries,  lost  their  way  in 
the  labyrinth  and  at  last  reached  the  lowest  floor  of  all 
at  a  depth  of  fifty  cubits  under  ground.  It  became 
difl&cult  to  breathe;  muddy  water  lay  under  foot.  The 
flame  of  the  lamps  became  dim  and  almost  blew  out. 
Putrid  miasmas  filled  the  air.  Myrrha  felt  her  head 
swim  and  gradually  lost  consciousness. 

Anatolius  took  her  in  his  arms.  At  every  step  they 
feared  to  encounter  the  legionaries  ;  all  the  outlets 
might  be  blocked  and  sealed  up  ;  they  were  running 
the  risk  of  being  buried  alive. 

At  last  they  heard  the  voice  of  Juventinus  calling— 

''Here!  here!" 


I70  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Bent  double,  he  was  carrying  the  old  Didimus  on  his 
back. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  they  reached  a  secret 
door  opening  on  the  Campagna. 

On  returning  to  the  house,  Arsinoe  quickly  un- 
dressed Myrrha  and  put  her  to  bed,  still  in  a  dead 
faint.  Kneeling  by  her  side  the  elder  sister  long 
kissed  and  chafed  the  thin,  yellow,  and  inert  hands. 
A  pang  of  agonising  presentiment  shot  through  her 
heart. 

The  face  of  the  sleeper  bore  a  strange  expression. 
Never  had  it  reflected  so  bodiless  a  charm.  All  the 
little  body  seemed  transparent  and  frail  as  the  sides  of 
an  alabaster  jar  illumined  by  an  inner  fire. 


XVIII 

LATE  one  evening  in  a  marshy  wood  not  far  from 
the  Rhine,  between  the  fortified  post,  Tres  Taber- 
ncB  and  the  Roman  town  of  Argentoratum,*  conquered 
a  short  time  previously  by  the  Alemanni,  two  soldiers 
who  had  lost  their  way  were  slouching  along.  One 
named  Aragaris,  an  awkward  and  red-headed  giant,  a 
Sarmatian  in  the  Roman  service  ;  the  other  Strombix, 
a  lean  and  frowning  little  Syrian. 

The  spaces  between  the  trunks  of  trees  were  densely 
dark.  A  fine  rain  was  falling  through  warm  air.  The 
birches  diffused  an  odour  of  damp  leaves,  and  far  off  a 
cuckoo  was  calling. 

At  every  crack  of  the  branches  the  startled  Strombix 
began  to  quake  and  seized  the  fist  of  his  companion. 

"  Oh,  cousin  !  cousin  !  " 

He  used  to  call  Aragaris  cousin,  not  through  blood 
relationship,  but  for  friendship's  sake.  They  had  been 
taken  into  the  Roman  army  from  opposite  ends  of  the 
world.  The  northern  barbarian,  a  huge  guzzler  but  a 
chaste  liver,  despised  the  voluptuous  and  timid  Syrian 
who  was  so  frugal  in  his  eating  and  drinking.  But 
while  mocking  him  he  pitied  him  as  a  child. 

"  Cousin!  "  wailed  Strombix. 

**  Well,  what  is  it  ?     Can't  you  be  quiet  ?  " 

**  Are  there  bears  in  this  wood  ?  " 

* '  Yes  ! ' '  answered  Aragaris  sullenly. 

'  Strasburg, 
171 


1 72  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  And  suppose  we  met  one,  eh  ?  " 

*'  We  should  knock  him  on  the  head,  sell  his  skin, 
and  go  and  drink." 

* '  And  suppose  the  bear,  instead  of  being  killed  ..." 

"  Poltroon  !  it  is  n't  difficult  to  see  that  you  're  a 
Christian  !" 

"  Why  must  a  Christian  be  a  coward  ?  "  said  Strom- 
bix  with  a  vexed  air. 

"  You  've  told  me  yourself  that  in  your  Book  it  is 
written  whosoever  smiteth  thee  on  thy  right  cheek  turn  to 
him  the  other  also. ' ' 

''True." 

"  Well,  I  'm  right ;  and  if  so,  to  my  thinking  you 
must  n't  go  to  wars  ;  the  enemy  will  strike  you  on 
one  cheek  and  you  turn  him  round  the  other.  You  're 
a  set  of  cowards,  I  say." 

''  The  Csesar  Julian  's  a  Christian,  and  he  is  n't  a 
coward ! ' '  retorted  Strombix. 

* '  I  know,  my  boy, ' '  continued  Aragaris,  ' '  that  you 
can  pardon  enemies  when  you  have  to  fight  them,  poor 
chicken  !  Your  belly  is  no  bigger  than  my  fist.  With 
a  clove  in  it  you  're  fed  up  for  the  whole  day  ;  and  so 
your  blood  is  no  better  than  marsh- water  !  " 

' '  Ah,  cousin  !  cousin  ! ' '  observed  Strombix  re- 
proachfully, * '  why  did  you  talk  about  food  ?  Now 
I  've  got  another  gnawing  ache  in  my  stomach.  Give 
me  a  little  garlic  !     There  's  some  left  in  your  bag." 

*'  If  I  give  you  what  there  's  left  we  shall  both  starve 
to-morrow  in  this  forest!  " 

'*  Ah,  but  if  you  don't  give  me  some  now,  I  shall 
fall  from  weakness  and  you  will  be  obliged  to  carry 
toe." 

*'  Well,  stufiP  and  swill,  dog  !  " 

**  And  a  little  bread  too,"  begged  Strombix. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  i  'iz 

Aragaris  gave  him,  with  an  oath,  his  last  ration  of 
biscuit.  He  himself  had  eaten  overnight  enough  for 
two  days,  of  fat  pork  and  bean  pottage. 

"  Attention  !  Hark  !  "  he  said  halting.  *'  There  's 
a  trumpet  !  We  're  not  far  from  the  camp.  We  must 
steer  round  to  the  north.  ...  I  don't  mind  bears," 
added  Aragaris  thoughtfully,"  but  that  centurion  ..." 

The  soldiers  had  nicknamed  this  hated  centurion 
**  Cedo  Alteram,"  because  he  used  to  cry  out  gleefully 
every  time  he  broke  the  rod  with  which  he  was  striking 
a  delinquent,  Cedo  alteram!  that  is  to  say,  **  Give  us 
another!  " 

'*  I  'm  certain,"  said  the  barbarian — **  I  '11  wager 
that  Cedo  Alteram  will  tan  my  back  as  a  tanner 
whacks  a  bullock's  hide.  It 's  abominable,  my  friend, 
abominable." 

The  worthy  pair  were  now  stragglers  behind  the 
army,  because  Aragaris  according  to  his  custom  had 
got  dead  drunk  in  a  plundered  village  and  Strombix 
had  been  thrashed.  The  little  Syrian  had  made  a 
fruitless  attempt  to  obtain  the  favours  of  a  handsome 
Prankish  girl.  This  sixteen-year-old-beauty,  daughter 
of  a  barbarian  killed  in  the  fight,  had  administered  to 
him  two  such  blows  that  he  had  fallen  on  his  back  and 
had  then  fairly  stamped  upon  him. 

'*  She  was  n't  a  girl  but  a  devil,"  declared  Strombix. 
"  I  hardly  took  hold  of  her  and  she  nearly  broke  every 
rib  in  my  body." 

The  note  of  the  trumpet  became  more  and  more  dis- 
tinct. Aragaris,  sniffing  the  wind  like  a  blood-hound, 
noticed  the  smell  of  smoke  ;  the  bivouacs  must  be  but 
a  short  way  off. 

The  night  became  pitch  dark.  They  could  hardly 
make  out  the  road  ;  the  path  was  lost  in  marshes  in 


174  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

which  they  leapt  from  tussock  to  tussock.  Fog  began 
to  rise.  Suddenly  from  a  great  yew,  with  branches 
from  which  moss  hung  like  long  grey  beards,  some- 
thing fled  away  with  a  harsh  cry.  Strombix  crouched 
down  with  fear.     It  was  a  black  cock. 

They  finally  lost  their  bearings.  Strombix  climbed 
a  tree. 

**  The  bivouacs  lie  northwards — not  far  off.  There  's 
a  wide  river  below." 

"The  Rhine,  the  Rhine!"  exclaimed  Aragaris. 
*  *  Now  go  ahead  !  ' ' 

They  slid  down  through  the  birches  and  aspen  trees 
a  hundred  years  old. 

"Cousin,  I'm  drowning!"  yelled  Strombix. 
"  Somebody  's  hauling  me  by  the  feet  !  " 

*  *  Where  are  you  ?  ' ' 

With  great  difiiculty  Aragaris  extricated  him,  and*, 
swearing,  took  him  on  his  shoulders.  Under  his  feet 
the  Sarmatian  felt  the  stems  of  faggots  laid  down  by  the 
Romans.  This  causeway  of  faggot  work  led  to  the 
great  road  hewn  not  long  before  through  the  forest  by 
the  army  of  Severus,  Julian's  general.  The  barbari- 
ans, according  to  their  custom,  had  blocked  and  en- 
cumbered the  track  with  enormous  trunks  of  trees. 
These  trunks  had  to  be  clambered  over.  Sometimes 
rotten,  moss-covered,  and  crumbling  under  foot,  and 
sometimes  hard  and  slippery  with  rain,  they  made  the 
march  most  difiBcult ;  and  it  was  by  roads  like  these, 
always  in  fear  of  an  attack,  that  the  army  of  about 
thirteen  thousand  men  had  to  move.  That  army  every 
Imperial  general  except  Severus  had  traitorously  aban- 
doned. 

Strombix  was  cursing  his  comrade — 

*'  I  won't  go  a  step  farther,  heathen  I    I  'd  rather 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  175 

lie  down  on  the  dead  leaves  and  die  ;  at  least  I  should 
not  see  your  damned  visage — huh!  Unbeliever!  It's 
easy  to  see  that  you  don't  wear  the  cross  !  Is  it  a 
Christian's  business  to  drag  along  a  road  like  this,  and 
what  are  we  pushing  on  to  ?  The  rods  of  the  centurion. 
I  won't  go  a  step  farther." 

Aragaris  hauled  him  on  by  main  force,  and,  when 
the  road  became  more  practicable,  carried  shoulder- 
high  the  whimsical  companion  who  kept  abusing  and 
pummelling  him  all  the  time  and  shortly  fell  soundly 
asleep  on  those  mighty  pagan  shoulders. 

At  midnight  they  reached  the  gates  of  the  Roman 
camp.  Everything  was  still.  The  drawbridge  had  long 
been  raised.  The  friends  had  to  sleep  in  the  wood  near 
the  hinder  gate,  usually  called  the  Decumanal. 

At  dawn  the  trumpet  sounded.  The  nightingale  had 
been  singing  in  the  misty  wood  ;  he  ceased,  frightened 
by  the  warlike  notes.  Aragaris  snuffed  the  smell  of 
soup  and  woke  Strombix.  They  made  their  way  into 
the  camp  and  sat  down  near  the  cauldrons.  In  the 
principal  tent  near  the  Pretorian  gate  the  Caesar  Julian 
w^as  keeping  watch. 

From  the  day  on  which  he  had  been  nominated 
Caesar  at  Milan  thanks  to  the  protection  of  the  Em- 
press Eusebia,  Julian  had  applied  himself  with  zeal  to 
soldierly  exercises.  He  not  only  used  to  study  the  art 
of  war  under  the  direction  of  Severus,  but  desired 
moreover  to  master  every  detail  of  the  work  of  the  rank 
and  file.  Within  sound  of  the  trumpet,  in  barracks, 
on  the  Campus  Martins  in  company  with  new  recruits, 
during  whole  days  he  would  learn  to  march,  to  use  the 
bow  and  sling,  to  leap  ditches,  and  to  run  under  the 
heavy  weight  of  full  marching  order.  He  became  also 
an  adept  in  swordsmanship. 


176  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  blood  of  the  race  of  Constantine,  a  race  of  aus- 
tere and  obstinate  warriors,  woke  in  the  young  man 
and  overcame  his  monkish  hypocrisy. 

**  Alack  !  divine  lamblicus  and  Plato  !  if  you  could 
only  see  what  your  pupil  is  becoming  !  "  he  wouM 
sometimes  exclaim,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  brow. 

And  pointing  to  his  armour  he  would  add — 

"  Don't  you  think,  Severus,  that  this  steel  sits  as 
badly  on  a  pupil  of  philosophers  as  a  war-saddle  on  an 
ox?" 

Severus  would  only  reply  by  a  mischievous  smile  ; 
he  knew  that  these  sighings  and  complaints  were  not 
sincere,  and  that  in  reality  Julian  was  delighted  with 
his  military  progress. 

In  a  few  months  he  had  been  so  transformed  and 
hardened  into  manhood  that  it  was  not  easy  to  recog- 
nise in  him  the  *'  little  Greek  "  of  the  Court  of  Con- 
stantius.  His  eyes  alone  had  not  changed,  still  shining 
with  a  strange  and  unforgettable  keenness  which  had 
in  it  something  of  fever.  Julian  felt  himself  growing 
stronger  every  day,  not  only  physically,  but  morally  al- 
so. For  the  first  time  in  his  existence  he  felt  the  happi- 
ness that  comes  from  the  love  of  simple  and  common  folk. 

From  the  first  it  had  gratified  the  legionaries  to  see 
a  real  Caesar,  cousin  of  the  Augustus,  learning  soldier- 
ing in  barracks,  with  no  repugnance  for  the  coarse  fare 
of  soldiers.  Austere  faces  of  the  veterans  would  light 
up  with  grim  tenderness  as  they  watched  young  Caesar, 
and  remembering  their  own  youth  wondered  at  his 
rapid  progress.  Julian  used  to  hail  them,  listen  to 
their  gossip  over  old  campaigns,  and  advice  about 
fastening  the  breastplate  so  that  the  straps  might  chafe 
less  and  the  best  way  of  holding  the  foot  while  march- 
ing to  avoid  over-fatigue. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  177 

The  rumour  went  round  that  the  Emperor  Constan- 
tius  had  sent  the  inexperienced  young  man  among  the 
barbarians  of  Gaul  to  get  killed,  that  he  himself  might 
be  rid  of  a  rival.  It  was  said  that  the  generals,  follow- 
ing the  hints  of  Imperial  eunuchs,  had  abandoned  and 
betrayed  the  young  Caesar  accordingly.  All  this  in- 
creased the  afifection  of  the  legions  for  Julian. 

Skilled  in  the  arts  of  winning  favour,  acquired  during 
his  monkish  education,  Julian  cautiously  used  every 
means  to  strengthen  the  love  felt  towards  himself  and 
to  deepen  the  unpopularity  of  the  Emperor.  Before 
the  soldiers  he  would  speak  of  his  brother  Constantius 
with  meaning  humility,  lowering  his  eyes  and  affecting 
the  aspect  of  a  victim.  It  was  the  easier  for  him  to  cap- 
tivate the  warriors  by  fearlessness,  inasmuch  as  death 
in  battle  seemed  to  him  a  thing  to  be  desired.  The 
kind  of  death  to  which  Gallus  had  been  subjected 
formed  no  part  of  his  designs. 

Julian  had  organised  his  life  after  the  austere  ex- 
ample of  ancient  conquerors.  His  stoic  education  by 
the  tutor  Mardonius  helped  him  to  endure  total  absence 
of  comfort.  He  allowed  himself  less  sleep  than  the 
meanest  soldier,  and  lay  not  on  a  bed  but  upon  a  coarse 
rough  carpet,  like  that  called  in  popular  parlance 
suburra. 

The  first  part  of  the  night  was  devoted  to  sleep,  the 
second  to  the  business  of  state  and  war,  the  third  to 
the  Muses.  For  Julian's  favourite  books  were  never 
left  behind  when  he  was  campaigning.  He  inspired 
himself  with  Marcus  Aurelius,  Plutarch,  Suetonius, 
and  Cato  the  elder;  and  by  day  he  endeavoured  to  put 
in  practice  what  he  had  mused  over  with  them  by  night. 

On  the  memorable  morning  before  the  battle  of 
Argentoratum,  when  he  heard  the  reveilli  at  dawn, 


I7S  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Julian  quickly  donned  complete  armour,  and  ordered 
his  charger  to  be  brought  round.  While  waiting  he 
withdrew  into  the  inmost  part  of  the  tent.  There  was 
ensconced  a  lovely  statuette  of  the  winged  Mercury, 
bearing  the  caduceus  —  the  god  of  movement,  gaiety, 
success.  Julian  bowed  before  the  image  and  threw 
some  grains  of  incense  on  a  little  tripod.  According 
to  the  direction  of  the  smoke  the  Caesar,  who  flattered 
himself  that  he  understood  the  divining  art,  sought  to 
ascertain  the  influence  of  the  day.  Overnight  he  had 
heard  a  raven  crying  three  times — a  bad  omen. 

Julian  was  so  convinced  that  his  unexpected  military 
success  in  Gaul  was  due  to  some  supernatural  power 
that  from  day  to  day  he  became  more  superstitious. 

When  issuing  from  the  tent  he  stumbled  over  the 
wooden  beam  at  the  threshold.  The  face  of  the  Caesar 
darkened.  All  the  omens  were  unfavourable  ;  he  in- 
wardly resolved  to  postpone  the  battle  till  the  morrow. 

The  army  began  its  march.  The  road  through  the 
forest  was  painful.  Masses  of  trees  embarrassed  every 
step.  The  day  promised  to  be  a  very  hot  one.  The 
army  had  only  done  half  its  journey,  and  there  re- 
mained more  than  one  and  twenty  Roman  miles  to 
cover  to  reach  the  camp  of  the  German  barbarians 
(Alemanni)  which  lay  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine 
in  a  great  plain,  near  the  town  Argentoratum. 

The  soldiers  were  worn  out.  As  soon  as  they  had 
crossed  the  forest  and  reached  open  ground  Julian  as- 
sembled them  round  himself  in  a  great  circle,  like 
spectators  in  an  amphitheatre,  so  as  himself  to  be  the 
centre  of  the  centurions  and  cohorts,  extending  from 
him  like  the  spokes  of  a  huge  wheel.  This  was  the 
custom  of  the  Roman  army,  so  that  the  greatest  pos- 
sible number  could  hear  the  words  of  their  general. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  1 79 

Julian  explained  to  the  legions  in  a  few  brief  and 
simple  sentences  that  fatigue  might  prevent  success, 
that  it  would  be  safer  to  camp  for  that  night  in  the 
field  where  they  were,  to  rest,  and  attack  the  barbari- 
ans the  following  morning,  with  vigour  renewed. 

Discontented  murmurs  ran  through  the  army  ;  the 
rank  and  file  struck  their  shields  with  lances — a  sign 
of  impatience  —  clamouring  that  Julian  should  lead 
them  without  delay  to  the  field  of  battle.  The  Caesar 
understood  by  the  general  expression  on  faces  around 
him  that  in  resisting  he  would  commit  a  grave  mis- 
take. He  felt  in  the  crowd  that  thrill  of  ferocity  with 
which  he  was  so  familiar,  which  was  so  indispensable 
to  victory,  and  by  the  least  maladroitness  so  easily  to 
be  changed  into  mutiny.  He  leapt  on  horseback  and 
gave  the  signal  to  continue  the  march.  Peals  of  en- 
thusiasm answered  him  and  the  army  moved  off. 

When  the  sun  was  beginning  to  sink  they  reached 
the  plain  of  Argentoratum.  There  the  Rhine  was 
shining  between  low  hills.  To  the  south  rose  the  som- 
bre mass  of  the  Vosges  Mountains,  and  swallows  were 
sweeping  over  the  surface  of  the  majestic  German  river. 

Suddenly,  on  the  nearest  hill,  three  riders  appeared  ; 
they  were  the  Alemanni. 

The  Romans  halted,  and  disposed  themselves  in 
battle-order.  Julian,  surrounded  by  six  hundred  steel- 
clad  horsemen,  the  Clibanarii, commanded  the  horsemen 
of  the  right  wing.  On  the  left  extended  the  infantry, 
under  the  orders  of  Sever  us.  Julian  himself  was  also 
under  the  command  of  this  general. 

The  barbarians  opposed  their  cavalry  to  that  of 
Julian.  At  their  head  rode  the  Alemannic  king  Chlo- 
domir.  Fronting  Severus,  Agenaric,  the  young  nephew 
of  Chlodomir,  led  the  German  infantry. 


i8o  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

War-horns,  trumpets,  and  fifes  resounded  ;  ensigna 
and  flags  inscribed  with  the  names  of  cohorts,  the 
purple  dragons  and  Roman  eagles,  assembled  at  the 
head  of  the  legions.  In  the  van  strode  axe-bearers, 
chief  centurions,  and  primipilares,  men  bred  to  victory. 
Their  regular  and  heavy  tread  shook  the  earth.  Sud- 
denly the  foot  soldiers  of  Severus  halted.  The  barbari- 
ans, who  had  been  lurking  in  a  trench,  sprang  from 
their  ambuscade  and  attacked  the  Romans.  Julian 
from  a  distance  saw  the  confusion  that  ensued  and 
galloped  up  to  restore  order.  He  attempted  to  calm 
the  soldiers,  speaking  hastily  now  to  one  cohort,  now 
to  another,  in  something  of  the  concise  style  of  Julius 
Caesar.  When  he  uttered  the  words,  "  Exurgamus 
viri  fortes,^ ^  or  *'  Advenit,  socii^  justem  pug7iandi  jam 
tempus,''  this  young  man  of  twenty- two  was  thinking 
with  pride:  "  At  last  I  am  like  such  and  such  a  famous 
soldier  !  "  Even  in  the  very  fire  of  action  he  never  for- 
got his  books,  and  rejoiced  to  enact  over  again  familiar 
scenes  of  I^ivy,  Plutarch,  and  Sallust.  The  well-tried 
Severus  restrained  his  ardour,  and,  while  giving  a  cer- 
tain liberty  to  Julian,  retained  the  general  direction  of 
the  action.  Arrows  whizzed  and  barbarian  javelins, 
dragging  long  cords  ;  and  war-engines  flung  huge 
stones  hundreds  ol  yards. 

The  Romans  now  found  themselves  face  to  face  at 
last  with  the  terrible  and  mysterious  inhabitants  of  the 
North,  about  whom  so  many  incredible  legends  were 
afloat.  Some  wore  bear-skins  on  their  backs,  and  on 
their  shaggy  heads  the  gaping  jaws  of  Vk^olves.  Others 
had  their  helms  adorned  with  the  horns  of  stag  and 
bull.  The  Alemanni  were  so  contemptuous  of  death 
that,  keeping  only  lance  and  sword,  they  frequently 
flung  themselves  into  battle  stark  naked. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  i8i 

Their  reddish  hair  was  knotted  on  the  top  of  their 
heads  and  fell  back  on  the  neck  in  a  thick  mass  or 
plaited  mane.  They  wore  long  sweeping  broad  mous- 
taches and  their  skins  were  deeply  bronzed.  A  great 
number  were  so  savage  that,  unfamiliar  with  the  use 
of  steel,  they  fought  with  bone-tipped  lances  dipped  in 
violent  poison.  A  scratch  from  this  primitive  barb 
was  sufficient  to  produce  a  slow  death  in  terrible  agony. 
From  head  to  foot,  instead  of  armour  they  wore  thin 
scales  pared  from  the  hoofs  of  horses  and  sewn  on  linen, 
a  kind  of  horny  mail.  In  this  array  the  barbarians 
seemed  strange  monsters,  clad  in  birds'  feathers  and 
fish  scales. 

There  were  also  Saxons  with  pale  blue  eyes,  men  for 
whom  the  sea  had  no  terrors,  but  who  feared  the  land. 

The  ioreuYosX primipilares,  locking  their  shields  to- 
gether, formed  a  compact  wall  of  steel,  and  advanced 
steadily,  slowly,  almost  invulnerable  to  blows.  The 
Alemanni  rushed  upon  this  wall  with  ferocious  cries, 
like  the  hoarse  growls  of  bears.  The  main  fight  began, 
breast  against  breast,  shield  against  shield.  Dust  was 
so  thick  over  the  plain  that  the  sun  was  darkened. 
At  this  moment  on  the  right  wing  the  iron-clad  horses 
of  the  Clibanarii  began  rearing  and  taking  fright. 
The  stampede  threatened  to  crush  the  legions  of  the 
rearguard.  Through  the  cloud  of  arrows  and  lances, 
the  fire-coloured  scarf  of  the  gigantic  king  Chlodomir 
was  shining  in  bright  sunlight. 

Julian  in  the  nick  of  time  galloped  up  on  his  black 
charger,  bespattered  with  foam.  He  grasped  the  situ- 
ation. The  barbarian  foot-soldiers,  placed  for  the  pur- 
pose between  their  horsemen,  were  slipping  under  the 
legs  of  the  Roman  horses,  and  disembowelling  them ;  the 
horses  fell,  dragging  down  in  their  fall  the  caiaphradi^ 


1 82  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

or  men  in  scale-armour,  who,  overwhelmed  undei 
its  weight,  were  unable  to  rise.  Julian  placed  himself 
directly  behind  the  flying  horsemen;  it  was  a  question 
of  either  stemming  the  flight  or  being  crushed  himself. 
The  tribune  of  the  Clibanarii  came  into  collision  with 
him.  Pale  with  shame  and  terror,  he  recognised 
Julian.  Julian's  forehead  flushed  purple,  he  forgot  his 
classical  books,  leaned  over,  seized  the  flying  man  by 
the  throat,  and  shouted  with  a  voice  which  appeared  to 
himself  strangely  savage — 

''Coward!" 

Then  he  faced  the  tribune  round  to  the  enemy.  The 
cataphradi  halted,  glanced  at  the  purple  dragon,  the 
Imperial  ensign,  and  remained  motionless.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  mass  of  iron  recoiled  and  swept  back  anew 
against  the  barbarians.  The  fight  became  a  wild  con- 
fusion. A  lance  struck  Julian  full  in  the  breast  ;  he 
owed  his  safety  to  his  breastplate.  An  arrow  hissed 
by  his  ear,  grazing  his  cheek  with  its  feathers.  Severus 
now  sent  the  legions  of  the  Cornuti  and  Brakathi,  half- 
savage  allies  of  the  Romans,  to  succour  the  wavering 
cavalry.  They  were  wont  to  sing  their  war-hymn,  the 
Barrith,  only  when  their  blood  was  up  in  the  joy  of 
battle,  intoning  it  in  a  low  and  plaintive  voice.  The 
first  notes  were  calm  as  the  nocturnal  sighing  of  woods  ; 
but  little  by  little  the  Barrith  became  louder,  more 
solemn,  and  terrible,  until  at  last,  raising  a  furious  and 
deafening  roar  like  a  stormy  sea,  all  the  singers  were 
beside  themselves. 

Julian  ceased  to  see  or  understand  the  surge  ot  battle 
round  him  ;  he  was  conscious  only  of  intolerable  thirst 
and  a  sharp  aching  in  the  bones  of  his  sword  hand  ;  he 
had  lost  all  reckoning  of  time.  But  Severus  kept  all 
his  presence  of  mind,   and  directed  the  fight  with 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  183 

incomparable  skill.  Perplexed  and  heart-broken,  Julian 
perceived  the  orange  scarf  of  Chlodomir  in  the  midst 
of  the  legions;  the  barbarians  had  penetrated  obliquely 
into  the  centre  of  the  Roman  army.  Julian  thought 
"  All  is  lost  !  "  He  remembered  the  unfavourable 
presages  of  the  morning  and  addressed  a  last  prayer  to 
the  gods  of  Olympus — 

**  Come,  help  me  !  For  who  is  there  but  I  to  restore 
you  to  power  upon  earth  ?  "  / 

In  the  centre  of  the  army  were  stationed  the  old 
veterans  of  the  Petulant  legion,  so  called  on  account  of 
their  rashness.  Severus  counted  on  them,  and  his 
reliance  was  not  in  vain.     One  of  them  shouted — 

"  Viri forfissimi  /  Bravest  of  the  brave,  let  us  not 
betray  Rome  and  our  Caesar  !  Let  us  die  for  Julian  ! 
Glory  and  prosperity  to  Caesar  Julian  !  " 

*'  For  Rome  ...  for  Rome  ..."  stern  voices  re- 
vsponded,  and  these  tried  legions,  grown  grey  under  the 
flag,  once  again  went  to  meet  death,  steady  and  cheery. 
The  inspiring  breath  of  great  Rome  swept  over  the 
whole  army. 

Julian,  his  eyes  full  of  enthusiastic  tears,  rode  to- 
wards the  veterans  to  die  along  with  them.  Again  he 
felt  the  force  of  sheer  affection,  the  force  of  the  people 
lifting  him  on  its  wings  to  carry  him  to  victory. 

Then  terror  seized  the  barbaric  masses ;  they 
trembled,  broke,  and  fled  ;  and  the  eagles  of  the 
legions,  their  rapacious  beaks  and  outspread  wings 
glittering  in  the  sun,  swooped  down  again  amongst 
the  routed  tribes,  proclaiming  the  victory  of  the  Eternal 
City. 

The  Alemanni  and  Franks  perished  fighting  to  the 
last  gasp. 

Kneeling  in  a  pool  of  blood,  the  savage  would  wield 


1 84  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

his  sword  or  lance  with  a  slackening  hand,  but  in  his 
troubled  eyes  were  to  be  seen  neither  fear  nor  despair, 
only  thirst  for  vengeance  and  contempt  for  his  con- 
querors. Even  those  who  were  left  for  dead  arose, 
half-crushed,  and  fixed  their  teeth  in  the  legs  of  their 
enemies.  Six  thousand  barbarians  fell  in  that  battle 
or  were  drowned  in  the  Rhine. 

The  same  evening,  as  Julian  Caesar  stood  on  the  hill, 
enveloped  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  King  Chlodo- 
mir,  who  had  been  made  prisoner  on  the  bank  of  the 
river,  was  led  before  him.  He  was  breathing  with 
difficulty,  his  face  livid  and  sweating,  his  enormous 
hands  bound  behind  his  back.  He  knelt  down  before 
his  conqueror,  and  the  young  Caesar  of  twenty-two 
laid  his  slight  hand  upon  the  shaggy  head. 


XIX 

IT  was  the  time  of  vintage  ;  all  day  songs  had  been 
echoing  along  the  hill-sides  around  the  pleasant 
Gulf  of  Naples. 

In  the  favourite  country  of  the  Romans,  at  Baise, 
famous  for  its  sulphur-baths,  Baiae  of  which  the  Au- 
gustan poets  used  to  say, 

Nullus  in  orbe  sinus  Baiis  prczlucet  amosniSy 

idle  folk  were  delighting  in  the  country  and  Nature  j 
there  fairer  and  more  voluptuous  than  man. 

It  was  an  inviolate  corner  of  that  charming  country, 
where  the  imaginations  of  Horace,  Propertius,  and 
Tibullus  lingered  yet.  Not  a  single  shadow  of  the 
monkish  age  had  yet  dulled  that  sunny  littoral  between 
Vesuvius  and  Cape  Misenum.  Christianity  it  is  true 
was  not  denied  there  ;  but  it  was  smilingly  put  by. 
Feminine  sinners  there  were  not  yet  repentant.  On 
the  contrary  honest  women  grew  shy  of  vittue  as  old- 
fashioned.  When  news  of  the  Sibyl's  prophecies 
arrived,  menacing  the  decrepit  world  with  earthquake, 
or  when  came  news  of  fresh  crimes  and  bigotries  of 
Constantius,  or  of  Persians  invading  the  East,  or  bar- 
barians threatening  the  North,  the  lucky  inhabitants 
of  Baiae,  closing  their  eyes,  inhaled  their  delicious 
breeze  full  of  the  odour  of  Falernian  half-crushed  in 
the  wine-press,  and  consoled  themselves  with  an  epi- 
gram.   To  forget  the  misfortunes  of  Rome  and  soothsay 

185 


i86  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

about  the  end  of  the  world,  all  that  they  needed  was 
to  send  each  other  gifts  of  pretty  verses — 

Calet  unda,  friget  csthra^ 

Simul  innatat  choreis 

Afnathusium  renidens 

Salts  arbitrcB  et  vaporis, 

Flos  siderum  Dione  !  - 

On  the  faces  of  the  gayest  Epicureans  could  be  seen 
something  at  once  senile  and  puerile.  Neither  the 
fresh  salt  water  of  the  sea  bath  nor  the  warm  sulphur- 
ous springs  of  Baise  could  completely  cure  the  bodies 
of  these  withered  and  chilly  young  men,  bald  and  old 
at  twenty,  not  through  their  own  debauches,  but 
through  sins  of  their  ancestors  ;  youths  on  whom 
women,  wisdom,  and  literature  had  begun  to  pall; 
witty  and  impotent  young  men,  in  whose  veins  ran  the 
blood  of  too  late  a  generation. 

In  one  of  the  most  flowery  and  pleasant  nooks  be- 
tween Baise  and  Puteoli  and  under  the  dark  slopes  of 
the  Apennine,  rose  the  white  marble  walls  of  a  villa. 

Near  the  wide  window,  opening  directly  on  the  sea, 
so  that  from  the  chamber  sky  and  sea  alone  were  visi- 
ble, Myrrha  was  lying  on  a  bed. 

The  doctors  had  not  understood  her  malady  ;  but 
Arsinoe,  who  watched  her  sister  day  by  day  losing 
strength  and  vitality,  had  brought  her  from  Rome  to 
the  sea-coast. 

Notwithstanding  her  illness  Myrrha  would  clean  and 
arrange  her  chamber  with  her  own  hands,  in  imitation 
of  nuns  and  hermits  ;  and  would  herself  bring  water, 
and  attempt  to  wash  linen,  and  do  her  own  cookery. 
For  weeks,  and  to  the  very  last  stage  of  her  illness,  she 
obstinately  refused  to  go  to  bed,  spending  whole  nights 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  187 

in  prayer.  One  day  the  terrified  Arsinoe  found  a  hair- 
shirt  on  the  weak  body  of  her  sister.  Myrrha  had 
taken  all  articles  of  luxury  from  her  little  chamber, 
stripping  it  of  curtains  and  ornaments,  and  leaving 
nothing  but  a  bed  and  a  coarse  wooden  crucifix.  The 
bare- walled  room  was  "  her  cell."  She  also  fasted 
strictly  and  Arsinoe  found  it  difficult  to  oppose  the 
gentle  obstinacy  of  her  will. 

From  the  life  of  Arsinoe  all  listlessness  had  disap- 
peared. She  wavered  continually  between  hope  of 
restoring  Myrrha  to  health  and  despair  at  losing  her. 
And  although  she  could  not  love  her  sister  more  pas- 
sionately than  before,  yet,  dominated  by  the  fear  of 
their  eternal  separation,  she  understood  her  own  love 
more  clearly. 

Sometimes,  with  motherly  pity,  Arsinoe  would  gaze 
upon  that  wasted  face,  and  the  little  body  in  which  so 
fierce  a  fire  was  burning.  When  the  sick  girl  refused 
wine  and  food  prescribed  by  the  physician,  Arsinoe 
would  say  in  vexation — 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  blind,  Myrrha  ?  Are  you  try- 
ing to  kill  yourself?  " 

"  Are  not  life  and  death  equal  in  our  eyes?  "  an- 
swered the  young  girl,  with  such  earnestness  that 
Arsinoe  could  only  reply — 

"  You  do  not  love  me  !  .  .  ." 

But  Myrrha  used  to  say  caressingly — 

*'  Beloved,  you  do  not  know  how  much  I  love  you  ) 
Oh,  if  you  could  only  ..." 

The  invalid  would  never  finish  the  sentence,  nor  ask 
her  sister  if  she  held  the  faith.  But  in  her  sad  glance 
at  Arsinoe,  as  if  not  daring  utterance,  Arsinoe  read  re- 
proach. Nevertheless,  she  was  herself  unwilling  to 
speak  about  that  faith,  not  having    the  courage  to 


1 88  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

communicate  her  doubt,  for  fear  of  perhaps  robbing 
her  sister  of  the  mad  hope  of  immortality. 

Myrrha  weakened  from  day  to  day,  waning  like  the 
wax  of  a  taper  ;  but  from  day  to  day  grew  more  joyous 
and  more  calm. 

Juventinus,  who  had  quitted  Rome  lest  his  mother 
should  follow  him,  was  waiting  at  Naples  with  Didi- 
mus  for  the  departure  of  the  ship  for  Alexandria.  He 
came  to  see  the  sisters  every  evening.  He  used  to  read 
aloud  the  Gospels  and  tell  legends  of  the  saints.  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  Myrrha  longed  to  journey  to  those  dark  caves 
and  live  near  those  great  and  holy  lives  !  The  desert 
to  her  appeared  not  dull  and  sterile,  but  flowery,  a 
wondrous  earthly  paradise,  lighted  by  a  light  such  as 
shone  on  no  other  region.  Indoors  she  grew  stifled ; 
and  sometimes,  fevered  by  the  pains  of  sickness,  and 
languishing  after  the  Thebaid,  she  used  to  watch  the 
white  sails  of  ships  disappear  in  the  distance  and 
stretch  out  her  pale  hands  towards  them.  Oh,  to  flee 
after  them  and  breathe  the  pure  air  and  silence  of  the 
desert!  Many  a  time  she  would  try  to  rise,  declar- 
ing she  felt  better,  would  soon  be  well,  and  in  secret 
kept  hoping  that  they  would  allow  her  to  set  sail 
with  Didimus  and  Juventinus,  on  the  ship  for 
Alexandria. 

Anatolius,  Arsinoe's  faithful  admirer,  was  also  living 
at  Baiae.  The  young  Epicurean  used  to  organise  de- 
lightful excursions  in  his  gilded  galley  from  the  Bay  to 
the  Psestan  Gulf,  with  gay  companions  and  pretty 
women.  What  he  loved  most  was  to  vSee  the  purple 
sails  bowing  over  the  sleepy  sea;  hues  of  twilight  melt- 
ing on  the  cliffs  of  Caprese  and  Ischia,  looking  like  enor- 
mous amethysts  lying  in  the  water.  It  pleased  him  to 
ridicule  his  friends  about  their  faith.     The  fragrance  of 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  189 

wines  and  the  intoxicating  kisses  of  courtesans  pleased 
him  also. 

But  every  time  he  went  into  Myrrha's  quiet  little  cell 
he  would  become  aware  that  another  side  of  life  also 
lay  open  to  him.  The  innocent  grace  and  the  pale 
countenance  of  the  young  girl  touched  him  deeply. 
He  longed  to  believe  in  anything  in  which  she  believed : 
the  gentle  Galilean,  and  the  miracle  of  immortality. 
He  would  listen  to  the  tales  of  Juventinus,  and  the 
life  of  desert  anchorites  he,  too,  thought  sublime. 
Anatolius  observed  with  surprise  that  for  himself 
truth  existed  both  in  the  intoxication  of  life  and  in  its 
renunciation ;  both  in  the  triumph  of  matter  and  in  the 
triumph  of  soul  ;  both  in  chastity  and  in  voluptuous- 
ness. His  intelligence  remained  clear,  and  his  con- 
science without  remorse. 

Even  doubt  had  for  him  its  pleasure,  like  a  kind  of 
new  game.  These  deep  and  gentle  waves  of  opinion, 
transitions  from  Christianity  to  Paganism,  lulled  his 
soul  rather  than  distressed  it. 

One  evening  Myrrha  fell  asleep  before  the  open  win- 
dow. On  awakening,  she  said  to  Juventinus  with  a 
bright  smile — 

"  I  've  had  a  strange  dream.  ..." 

''What  was  it?" 

"  I  don't  remember.  But  it  was  happy.  Do  you 
think  that  the  whole  world  will  gain  salvation  ?  " 

**  All  the  righteous  ;  sinners  will  be  punished." 

"  Righteous  ?  sinners  ?  .  .  .  That  is  not  my  idea," 
answered  Myrrha,  still  smiling,  as  if  she  was  trying  to 
remember  the  dream.  "  Do  you  know,  Juventinus, 
that  all,  all  shall  be  saved,  and  that  God  will  not  suffer 
V)ne  to  be  lost!  " 

*'  So  the  great  master  Origen  believed.     He  used  to 


I90  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

say,  *  My  Saviour  cannot  rejoice  so  long  as  I  am  in  in 
iquity.'  But  that  is  a  heresy.  ..." 

Myrrha,  not  h'stening,  went  on — 

"  Yes!  yes!  that  must  be  so.  I  understand  it  at  last. 
All  shall  be  saved,  to  the  very  last.  God  wilFnot  allow 
one  of  His  creatures  to  perish." 

"I  wish  I  too  could  believe  it,"  murmured  Juventi- 
nus,  "  but  I  should  be  afraid.  ..." 

'*  One  must  fear  nothing;  where  there  is  love,  fear  is 
cast  out.     I  do  not  fear  anything." 

'*  And  He  ?  "  demanded  Juventinus. 

"Who?" 

"  He,  the  Unnameable,  the  Arch-rebel!  " 

**  He  also.  He  also!  "  cried  Myrrha,  with  strong  con- 
viction. "  So  long  as  there  shall  be  even  a  soul  that 
has  not  gained  salvation,  no  creature  can  enjoy  full 
felicity.  If  there  be  no  bounds  to  Love,  if  Love  is  infi- 
nite, then  all  shall  be  in  God,  and  God  in  all.  Friend, 
will  not  that  be  happiness  ?  We  have  not  yet  taken 
full  account  of  that.  Every  soul  must  be  blessed,  do 
you  understand  ?  *  * 

"And  Evil?" 

"  There  is  no  evil,  if  there  is  no  Death." 

Through  the  open  window  came  the  echo  of  the  Bac- 
chic songs  of  the  friends  of  Anatolius,  making  merry 
\n  their  purple  galleys  on  the  blue  twilight  sea. 

Myrrha  pointed  to  them — 

"  And  that  is  also  beautiful,  and  that  is  also  to  be 
blest,"  she  murmured. 

'  *  What  ?  These  vicious  songs  ?  ' '  asked  Juventinus, 
dreading  her  reply. 

Myrrha  shook  her  head — 

*  *  No !  all  is  well,  all  is  pure.  Beauty  comes  from  God. 
Friend,  what  are  you  afraid  of  ?    To  love,  one  must 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  191 

be  unspeakably  free!  .  .  .  Fear  absolutely  nothing. 
You  are  still  ignorant  what  happiness  life  can  give!  " 

She  drew  a  deep  sigh  and  added — 

**  And  what  happiness  death  gives  too!  " 

It  was  their  last  talk  together.  Myrrha  la}''  in  bed 
for  several  days,  motionless  and  silent,  without  opening 
her  eyes.  She  may  have  suffered  much,  for  her  brows 
would  sometimes  contract  with  pain;  but  a  gentle  smile 
of  resignation  would  follow  ;  not  a  groan,  not  a  com- 
plaint escaped  the  closed  lips. 

Once,  at  midnight,  she  called  Arsinoe,  who  was  sit- 
ting beside  her.  The  sick  girl  spoke  with  diflSculty; 
she  asked,  without  opening  her  eyes — 

'*  Is  it  yet  day  ?" 

**  No,  night  still,"  answered  Arsinoe,  "  but  the  sun 
will  soon  rise." 

*' I  cannot  hear.  .  .  .  Who  are  you?"  Myrrha 
murmured  indistinctly. 

'*  It  is  I,  Arsinoe." 

The  invalid  suddenly  opened  her  wide  luminous  eyes 
and  gazed  fixedly  on  her  sister. 

"  It  seemed  to  me,"  said  Myrrha  with  an  effort,  **  it 
seemed  to  me  that  it  was  not  you  .  .  .  that  I  was  ut- 
terly alone." 

Then  very  slowly,  with  great  difficulty,  being 
scarcely  able  to  move,  she  brought  her  transparent 
hands  together,  with  an  imploring  look  of  fear.  The 
corners  of  the  lips  trembled,  the  eyebrows  moved. 

**  Do  not  abandon  me!  When  I  die,  do  not  think 
that  I  am  no  more ! ' ' 

Arsinoe  leaned  towards  her,  but  Myrrha  was  too 
weak  to  kiss  her,  although  she  tried  to  do  so.  Arsinoe 
brought  her  cheek  closer  to  the  great  eyes,  and  the 
young  girl  softly  caressed  her  face  with  the  long  lashes. 


192  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Arsinoe  felt  on  her  cheek  a  touch  light  as  butterfl3''s 
velvety  wings.  It  was  a  trick  invented  by  Myrrha  in 
childhood. 

That  last  caress  brought  back  to  Arsinoe  all  their 
life  together,  all  their  mutual  affection.  She  fell  on  her 
knees  and,  for  the  first  time  for  years,  sobbed  irresisti- 
bly, as  if  the  tears  were  melting  her  inmost  heart. 

"  No,  Myrrha,"  she  said,  ''  I  will  not  abandon  you. 
...     I  will  stay  with  you  always!  " 

Myrrha' s  eyes  grew  animated  and  joyous;  she  fal- 
tered— 

**  Then  you " 

**  Yes;  I  long  to  believe;  I  will  believe  !  "  exclaimed 
Arsinoe,  and  immediately  wondered.  Those  words  ap- 
peared a  miracle  to  herself,  and  no  deception.  She  had 
no  wish  to  recall  them. 

"  I  will  go  into  the  desert,  Myrrha;  like  j^ou,  instead 
of  you,"  she  continued  in  a  transport  of  wild  love; 
'*  and,  if  God  exists.  He  must  grant  that  there  shall  be 
no  death  between  us;  so  that  we  shall  be  always 
together ' ' 

Myrrha  closed  her  eyes,  listening  to  her  sister.  With 
a  smile  of  infinite  peace,  she  murmured — 

"  Now,  I  will  go  to  sleep.  I  want  nothing  more.  I 
am  well." 

She  never  opened  her  eyes  or  spoke  again;  her  face 
was  calm  and  severe  as  the  face  of  the  dead ;  and  in 
this  state  she  lived  on  several  days  longer. 

When  a  cup  of  wine  was  brought  near  to  her  lips, 
she  would  swallow  a  few  mouthfuls.  If  her  breathing 
became  nervous  and  irregular,  Juventinus  would  chant 
a  prayer  or  some  divine  hymn,  and  then,  as  if  soothed, 
Myrrha  began  to  breathe  more  easily. 

One  evening,  when  the  sun  had  set  behind  Ischia 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  193 

and  Capreae,  while  the  motionless  sea  was  melting  into 
heaven,  and  the  first  dim  star  trembling,  Juventinus 
was  singing  to  the  dying  girl — 

Deus  creator  omnium 
Polique  rector  vestiens^ 
Diem,  decore  lumine 
Noctetn  sopora  gratia. 

Perhaps  Myrrha's  last  sigh  was  breathed  to  the 
sound  of  that  solemn  hymn.  None  knew  when  she 
died.  There  seemed  no  change.  Her  life  mingled 
painlessly  with  the  impalpable,  inviolable,  the  Eternal, 
as  the  warmth  of  a  fair  twilight  melts  into  the  coolness 
of  night. 

Arsinoe  buried  her  sister  in  the  catacombs,  and  with 
her  own  hand  engraved  on  the  slab,  *'  Myrrha^  vivis  !  " 
("  Myrrha,  thou  livest.") 

She  scarcely  wept.  But  she  bore  in  her  heart  coa 
tempt  for  the  world,  and  the  resolve  to  believe  in  God, 
or  at  least  to  do  all  she  could  to  attain  belief  in  Him. 
She  desired  to  distribute  her  fortune  to  the  poor,  and 
to  set  out  for  the  Thebaid.  On  the  very  day  Arsinoe 
informed  her  indignant  guardian  of  these  intentions 
she  received  from  Gaul  a  curt  and  enigmatic  letter  from 
Caesar  Julian — 

"  Julian,  to  the  most  noble  Arsinoe,  happiness!  Do 
you  remember  the  matter  about  which  we  spoke  to- 
gether at  Athens,  in  front  of  the  statue  of  Artemis  ?  Do 
you  remember  our  alliance  ?  Great  is  my  hate,  but 
greater  yet  is  my  love.  It  may  be  that  the  lion  shall 
fling  away  the  ass's  skin  soon.  Meantime,  let  us  be 
gentle  as  doves  and  wise  as  serpents,  according  to  the 
counsel  of  the  Nazarean  Christ." 


XX 

C^OM POSERS  of  Court  epigrams,  who  mockingly 
t*  nicknamed  Julian  '*  Victorinus"  or  "  the  little 
Conqueror,"  were  astonished  to  receive,  time  after 
time,  news  of  the  Caesar's  continual  victories.  The 
laughable  gradually  became  the  terrible.  General  dis- 
cussion arose  about  witchcrafts  and  secret  daemonic 
forces  backing  the  fortunes  of  the  friend  of  Maximus  of 
Kphesus. 

Julian  had  conquered  and  restored  to  the  Roman 
Empire  Argentoratum,  Bracomagum,'  TresTabernse,^ 
Noviomagus,^  Vangiones,*  Moguntiacum." 

The  soldiers  worshipped  him  as  much  as  ever;  and 
Julian  became  more  and  more  convinced  that  the  Olym- 
pians were  protecting  him  and  advancing  his  cause. 
But,  for  prudential  reasons,  he  continued  to  attend 
Christian  churches,  and  in  the  town  of  Vienna  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Rhodanus  he  had  been  present  at 
an  especially  solemn  mass. 

In  the  middle  of  December  the  conquering  Caesar 
was  returning  after  along  campaign  to  winter  quarters 
in  his  beloved  Parisis-IyUtetia  on  the  banks  of  the 
Seine. 

Night  was  closing  in.  The  southern  soldiers  were 
marvelling  at  the  pale  green  lights  of  the  northern  sky. 
New-fallen  snow  sounded  crisply  under  the  tread  of 
the  soldiers.     Lutetia,  built  on  a  little  island,  was  sur- 

'  Brumal  near  Strasburg.  ^  Saverne  (Vosges). 

'  Spires.  ^  Worms.  *  Mayence. 

194 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  195 

rounded  by  wide  river-channels.  Two  wooden  bridges 
connected  the  town  with  steep  banks.  Its  houses  were 
built  in  the  Gallo-Roman  style,  with  broad  glazed  gal- 
leries, instead  of  the  open  porticoes  of  southern  coun- 
tries. The  smoke  of  a  multitude  of  chimneys  hung 
over  the  town,  and  the  trees  were  hoar  with  frost. 

Fig-trees  carefully  swaddled  in  straw,  and  brought 
by  the  Romans  from  the  south,  clung  to  the  southward- 
facing  walls  of  the  gardens,  like  children  dreading  the 
cold. 

This  year,  in  spite  of  occasional  thawing  winds  from 
the  south,  the  winter  had  been  severe.  Huge  blocks 
of  ice,  crashing  and  grinding  together,  were  floating 
down  the  Seine.  The  Greek  and  Roman  soldiers  used  to 
watch  these  in  surprise,  and  Julian  too  wondered  at  the 
beauty  of  the  blue  and  green  transparent  masses,  and 
compared  them  to  Phrygian  marble,  with  its  emerald- 
hued  veins. 

There  was  something  in  the  sad  beauty  of  the  North 
which,  like  a  distant  remembrance,  haunted  and 
thrilled  his  heart,  as  now  he  and  his  troop  arrived  at 
the  palace,  of  which  the  brick  arcades  and  turrets  rose 
in  sharp  black  outline  against  the  twilight  sky. 

Julian  went  into  the  library.  The  cold  was  intense  ; 
a  great  fire  was  kindled  on  the  hearth,  and  letters  which 
had  arrived  at  Lutetia  during  his  absence  were  brought 
to  him.  One  of  these  from  Asia  Minor  came  from 
lamblicus.  Julian  thought  that  the  fragrance  of  the 
East  came  with  it. 

Outside  a  hurricane  was  raging,  and  the  wind  roar- 
ing by  struck  violent  blows  on  the  closed  shutters. 
Shutting  his  eyes,  Julian  dreamed  of  marble  porticoes 
and  gleaming  temples  veiled  in  obscurity,  sweeping 
away  to  the  horizon  to  disappear  like  golden  clouds. 


196  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

He  shivered,  rose,  and  noticed  that  the  fire  had  gone 
out.  He  could  hear  a  mouse  gnawing  the  parchments 
in  the  library. 

Julian  suddenly  felt  a  longing  to  see  a  human  face. 
With  a  half-humorous  smile  he  remembered  that  he 
had  a  wife.  She  was  a  relative  of  the  Empress  Eusebia, 
named  Helena,  whom  the  Emperor  had  forced  to  marry 
Julian  shortly  before  his  departure  for  Gaul.  Julian 
cared  nothing  for  Helena.  Although  more  than  a  year 
had  elapsed  since  their  marriage  he  had  scarcely  seen 
her ;  he  knew  nothing  of  her,  and  had  never  passed  a 
night  under  the  same  roof.  His  wife  had  remained  a 
virgin. 

From  youth  up,  her  dream  had  been  to  become  the 
spouse  of  Christ.  The  idea  of  marriage  filled  her  with 
disgust.  At  first  she  had  thought  all  was  lost,  but, 
seeing  afterwards  that  Julian  asked  from  her  no  con- 
jugal caresses,  she  grew  calmer  and  lived  in  her  apart- 
ment, morose,  placid,  dressed  in  black,  the  life  of  a 
nun.  In  her  prayers  Helena  had  vowed  perpetual 
chastity. 

On  this  night  a  mischievous  curiosity  drove  Julian  to 
the  tower  in  which  his  wife  was  praying.  He  opened 
the  door  without  knocking,  and  went  into  the  feebly 
lighted  cell;  the  virgin  was  kneeling  before  a  lectern 
above  which  hung  a  large  crucifix. 

Julian  approached,  and  screening  the  flame  of  the 
lamp  with  one  hand,  gazed  at  his  wife  for  some  min- 
utes, frowning.  She  was  so  absorbed  in  devotion  that 
she  did  not  notice  him.     He  said — 

"Helena!" 

She  uttered  a  cry  and  turned  her  pale  severe  face 
towards  Julian. 

**  How  you  startled  mel" 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  197 

He  looked  wonder  in  gly  at  the  great  crucifix,  the 
gospel,  and  the  lectern,  and  murmured — 

"  Are  you  alwaj^s  praying  ?  " 

"  Yes!     I  pray  for  you  also,  well-beloved  Caesar." 

' '  For  me  ?  Really  !  .  .  .  Confess  that  you  believe 
me  to  be  a  great  sinner  ?  " 

She  lowered  her  eyes  without  answering.  His  frown 
became  deeper. 

*  *  Do  not  be  afraid  ;  speak  out.  Don't  you  believe  that 
I  am  specially  guilty,  in  some  manner,  before  God  ?  " 

She  answered  in  a  low  voice — 

"Specially?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  think  so.  Do  not  be 
angry.  ..." 

' '  I  was  sure  of  it.  .  .  .  Now  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  I 
must  repent  me  of  my  crimes." 

Helena  resumed,  in  a  yet  lower  voice,  and  more 
severely — 

"  Do  not  laugh  !  I  have  to  answer  for  your  soul  be- 
fore the  Eternal " 

"You  .  .  .  for  mine?" 

"  We  are  joined  for  ever." 

"By  what?" 

"  The  sacrament  of  marriage." 

"Religious  marriage?  But  up  till  now  we  are 
strangers  to  one  another,  Helena  !  ' ' 

"  I  fear  for  j^our  soul,  Julian,"  she  repeated,  fixing 
on  him  her  innocent  eyes. 

Placing  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  he  gazed  mock- 
ingly at  the  pale  face,  so  cold  in  its  chastity.  The 
small  and  lovely  mouth,  with  its  rosy  lips  half  parted 
with  an  expression  of  fear  and  inquiry,  was  in  strange 
contrast  to  the  rest  of  the  face.  Julian  leaned  towards 
her,  and  before  she  had  time  to  regain  her  presence  of 
mind,  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 


198  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

She  started  and  rushed  to  a  far  corner  of  the  room, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.  Then  gazing  at  Julian, 
her  eyes  wild  with  fear,  she  hastily  crossed  her- 
self, murmuring — 

"  Away,  away,  O  evil  one  !  I  know  thee  ;  thou  art 
not  Julian,  but  the  Devil.  In  the  name  of  the  most 
Holy  Cross,  I  conjure  thee  .  .  .  disappear  !  " 

Anger  seized  Julian  ;  he  turned  to  the  door  and 
bolted  it ;  then  approaching  Helena  with  a  smile  he 
said— 

'*  Be  yourself,  Helena  ;  I  am  a  man — I  am  your  hus- 
band— and  not  the  Devil  !  The  Church  has  blessed  our 
union."  He  gazed  upon  her  with  strangely  warring 
emotions.     She  slowly  drew  her  hands  from  her  eyes. 

"Forgive  me  .  .  .  it  seemed  to  me  .  .  .  you  fright- 
ened me  so,  Julian  ...  I  know  that  you  desire 
nothing  evil  .  .  .  but  I  have  had  visions.  .  .  .  Just 
now  I  believed  .  .  .  He  haunts  this  place  at  night. 
Twice  I  have  seen  him  .  .  .  He  said  to  me  ill  things 
about  you.  Since  then  I  have  been  afraid.  He  told 
me  you  bore  on  your  face  the  mark  of  Cain  .  .  .  Why 
do  you  look  at  me  so,  Julian  ?  " 

She  was  trembling  and  leaning  against  the  wall  ;  he 
approached  and  put  his  arm  round  her  waist. 

* '  What  are  you  doing  ?     I^et  me  go,  let  me  go  !  " 

She  tried  to  cry  out,  to  call  the  servant. 

"  Bleutheria  !     Eleutheria  !  " 

**  Why  are  you  calling  ?   Am  I  not  your  husband  ?  " 

She  began  to  weep  bitterly. 

*  *  Brother,  this  must  not  be  .  .  .  I  am  the  bride  of 
Christ!  .  .  .     I  believed  that  you  ..." 

**  The  bride  of  the  Roman  Csesar  cannot  be  the  bride 
of  Christ !  " 

**  Julian!  .  .  .     If  you  believe  in  Him  .  .  ,*' 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  199 

He  jmiled. 

•'I  abhor  the  Galilean  !" 

In  a  supreme  effort  she  strove  to  repulse  him,  ex- 
claiming, "Away,  Devil  !  .  .  .  Why  hast  thou  aban- 
doned me,  Lord  ?  ' ' 

With  his  impious  hands  he  tore  off  the  black  vest- 
ment. His  soul  was  full  of  fear,  but  never  before  in 
his  life  had  he  known  such  intoxication  in  evil-doing. 
Ironically,  with  a  smile  of  defiance,  the  Roman  Caesar 
gazed  at  the  opposite  corner  of  the  cell,  where  in  the 
feeble  flicker  of  the  lamp-light  hung  the  great  black 
crucifix.  .  .  . 


XXI 

MORE  than  two  years  had  elapsed  since  the  victory 
of  Argentoratum.  Julian  had  delivered  Gaul 
from  the  barbarians.  At  the  beginning  of  spring,  when 
still  at  Lutetia  for  his  winter  quarters,  he  had  received 
an  important  letter  from  the  Emperor  Constantius 
brought  by  the  tribune  Decensius. 

Each  new  victory  achieved  in  Gaul  harried  the  soul 
of  Constantius,  and  stabbed  his  vanity  to  the  quick. 
This  '*  street-urchin,"  this  **  magpie,"  this  ''  monkey 
in  the  purple,"  this  "pocket  conqueror,"  to  the  indig- 
nation of  Court  scoffers  had  turned  into  a  veritable 
victor. 

Constantius  writhed  with  jealousy.  At  the  same 
time  he  sustained  defeat  after  defeat  in  his  own  cam- 
paign against  the  Persians  in  the  Asiatic  provinces. 
He  grew  thin,  sleepless,  lost  his  appetite,  and  twice 
suffered  from  terrible  attacks  of  vomiting.  The  Court 
physicians  were  in  dismay. 

Sometimes,  during  nights  ot  insomnia,  lying  in  bed 
under  the  sacred  standard  of  Constantine,  the  Em- 
peror mused  : 

* '  Eusebia  deceived  me  !  But  for  her  I  should  have 
followed  the  wise  counsel  of  Mercurius.  ...  I  should 
have  had  his  throat  cut  in  some  dark  corner  !  I 
should  have  exterminated  this  serpent  from  the  Fla- 
vian nest!  .  .  .  Imbecile  that  I  was  !  .  .  .  It  was  I, 
myself,  who  let  him  escape  !  And  who  knows  ?  .  .  , 
Perhaps  Eusebia  herself  was  his  mistress  ?  " 

200 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  201 

A  long-delayed  jealousy  made  his  envy  bitterer  still. 
He  could  not  revenge  himself  on  the  Empress  Eusebia, 
who  was  dead.  His  second  wife,  Faustine,  was  an 
empty-headed  little  woman  for  whom  he  felt  nothing 
but  contempt. 

Constantius  tore  the  hair  on  which  hairdressers  still 
spent  such  infinite  pains,  and  shed  tears  of  rage.  Had 
he  not  protected  the  Church  ?  Had  he  not  swept  all 
heresies  to  destruction  ?  Had  he  not  built  and  adorned 
monastery  after  monastery  ?  Did  he  not  regularly 
accomplish  all  due  rites  and  offices  ?  And  now  what 
reward  was  granted  him  ?  For  the  first  time  the  mas- 
ter of  the  world  felt  his  soul  swelling  in  indignation 
against  the  Master  of  the  universe.  A  dark  imprecation 
rose  to  his  lips. 

To  assuage  his  jealousy  he  had  recourse  to  unusual 
means.  He  sent  letters  to  all  great  cities, — ' '  letters  of 
victory,"  adorned  with  laurels,  and  announcing  the 
triumphs  granted  by  the  grace  of  God  to  the  Emperor 
Constantius.  These  letters  were  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  Constantius  and  not  Julian  who  had  four  times 
crossed  the  Rhine, — Constantius  (who  was  really  frit- 
tering away  his  army  at  the  other  end  of  the  world). 
It  was  Constantius,  and  not  Julian,  who  had  almost 
perished  from  arrows  at  Argentoratum  !  Constantius 
who  had  taken  Chlodomir  prisoner  ;  Constantius  who 
had  pierced  marshes  and  impracticable  forests,  hewn 
roads,  stormed  fortresses  and  endured  hunger,  thirst, 
heat;  who,  more  wearied  than  the  soldiers,  had  allotted 
to  himself  less  sleep  than  they. 

Julian's  name  was  never  mentioned  in  these  de- 
spatches, as  if  that  Caesar  were  no  longer  in  existence. 
The  people  applauded  Constantius  as  conqueror  of  the 
Gauls,  and  in  all  the  churches,  bishops  and  archbishops 


202  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

chanted  prayers  and  thanksgivings  for  victory  granted 
to  him  over  the  barbaric  Alemanni. 

Julian  on  hearing  of  these  follies  contented  himself 
with  a  smile.  But  the  Emperor's  gnawing  jealousy 
was  not  sated.  He  decided  to  rob  Julian  of  his  best 
soldiers,  and  then  by  imperceptible  steps  and  fleeting 
pretences  to  disarm  him,  as  Gallus  had  been  disarmed; 
to  draw  him  into  the  toils  and  deal  him  the  mortal 
blow. 

With  this  intention  he  sent  with  a  letter  to  Lutetia  a 
certain  skilful  ofi&cial,  the  tribune  Decensius.  He  was 
forthwith  to  select  the  most  trusted  legions,  namely, 
the  Heruli,  Batavians,  Petulants,  and  Celts  ;  and  to 
despatch  them  into  Asia  for  the  Emperor's  own  use. 
Moreover,  this  dignitary  was  to  deflower  each  remain- 
ing legion  of  its  three  hundred  bravest  warriors;  and 
Cintula,  tribune  of  the  Imperial  stables,  was  instructed 
to  take  the  pick  of  the  porters  and  baggage-carriers, 
and,  having  thus  crippled  Julian's  transport,  to  bring 
these  men  to  the  East. 

Julian  warned  Decensius,  and  proved  to  him  that  re- 
bellion was  inevitable  among  the  savage  legions  raised 
in  Gaul,  who  would  almost  certainly  perfer  to  die 
rather  than  quit  their  native  soil.  But  that  obstinate 
oflScial,  preserving  an  imperturbable  haughtiness  on 
his  wily  yellow  face,  took  no  account  of  these  observa- 
tions. 

At  right  angles  to  one  of  the  wooden  bridges  which 
joined  the  island  of  Lutetia  to  the  river-banks,  stretched 
long,  low  barrack  buildings.  All  the  morning  the  sol- 
diery had  been  excited  and  tumultuous.  The  stern 
and  wise  discipline  hitherto  observed  by  Julian  alone 
restrained  them. 

The  first  cohorts  of  Petulants  and  the  Heruli  had  de- 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  203 

parted  on  the  previous  night.  Their  comrades  the 
Celts  and  iSatavians  were  preparing  to  follow  them. 
Cintula  issued  his  orders  in  a  peremptory  tone.  Savage 
murmurs  were  running  through  the  crowd.  An  in- 
subordinate soldier  had  just  been  beaten  to  death.  De- 
censius  strode  hither  and  thither,  pen  behind  ear, 
documents  in  hand.  In  the  great  courtyards,  under  a 
dark  sky,  thick-wheeled  covered  chariots  were  waiting 
for  the  soldiers'  wives  and  children.  Women,  parting 
from  the  country  where  they  were  born,  were  stretch- 
ing out  their  arms  to  the  woods  and  fields.  Others 
were  kissing  the  maternal  soil,  and  weeping  at  the 
thought  that  their  dust  should  be  buried  in  a  strange 
land.  Others,  more  resigned  and  sullen  in  their  pain, 
had  wrapped  handfuls  of  earth  in  little  bundles,  to 
carry  with  them  as  tokens.  A  lean  dog,  with  ribs  to 
be  counted  through  his  skin,  was  licking  the  grease  of 
an  axle-tree.  Suddenly  he  darted  away  and  began  to 
howl,  muzzle  in  the  dust.  Everybody,  thrilled  by  the 
sound,  turned  round  to  watch  him.  A  legionary  an- 
grily thrashed  the  poor  beast,  who  fled  into  a  field  with 
his  tail  between  his  legs,  and,  halting  there,  renewed 
his  bowlings  in  a  yet  more  plaintive  key.  This  dog's 
cry,  wailing  through  the  impressive  silence  of  the  twi- 
light, shook  the  nerves  of  all  who  heard  it.  The  Sar- 
matian  Aragaris  belonged  to  the  number  chosen  to 
leave  the  north.  He  was  bidding  farewell  to  the  faith- 
ful Strombix — 

"  Oh,  cousin,  cousin  !  why  are  you  leaving  me?  *' 
whined  Strombix,  between  mouthfuls  of  soup,  which 
Aragaris  had  given  up  to  him.  Grief  had  taken  away 
his  own  appetite. 

"Be  quiet,  fool!"  the  consolatory  Aragaris  was 
remarking;  '*  there  are  too  many  women  groaning 


204  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

already  !  .  .  .  It  would  be  more  useful  if  you,  who 
belong  to  the  country,  would  tell  me  what  forests  we 
shall  have  to  pass  through  ?  " 

**  What  do  you  mean,  cousin  ?  There  are  no  forests 
there  ;  only  sand  and  rocks." 

**  And  how  does  one  get  shelter  from  the  sun?" 
asked  the  incredulous  Aragaris. 

"  It  's  a  desert  !  It 's  as  hot  there  as  under  a  cook's 
oven,  and  there  's  not  a  drop  of  water." 

**  What  !     No  water  ?    And  how  about  beer  ?  " 

**  They  don't  even  know  what  beer  means  !  " 

"  You  're  lying  !  " 

**  May  I  be  struck  blind,  cousin,  if  in  all  Mesopo- 
tamia and  Syria  you  find  a  keg  of  beer  or  of  honey." 

*'  Then  it  's  all  over,  brother  !  If  it 's  hot  there,  and 
there  's  neither  water,  beer,  nor  honey,  they  're  simply 
hunting  us  to  the  end  of  the  world  like  oxen  to  the 
slaughter  !  " 

**  Hunting  you  on  to  the  horns  of  the  Devil, 
cousin!  "  and  Strombix  wept  yet  more  bitterly. 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  distant  rumble,  and  din 
of  voices.  The  two  friends  ran  out  of  the  barracks  ;  a 
crowd  of  soldiers  were  rushing  over  the  wooden  bridge 
towards  Lutetia.  The  cries  came  nearer  ;  wild  agita- 
tion seized  the  garrison  ;  the  soldiery  poured  out  upon 
the  road  in  a  dense  shouting  mass,  in  spite  of  the  or- 
ders, threats,  and  even  blows  of  the  centurions. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  asked  a  veteran. 

*'  Twenty  soldiers  have  been  beaten  to  death  !  " 

*'  What  ?    Twenty  !     Why,  it  was  a  hundred!  " 

"  They  *re  going  to  cudgel  every  man  in  turn  ;  it  's 
the  order  1  " 

Su(Jdenly  a  legionary  with  torn  clothes  and  terrified 
demeanour  rushed  into  the  crowd  shouting-^ 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  205 

*'  Comrades  !  quick,  to  the  palace  !  .  .  .  quick  ! 
Julian  's  just  been  beheaded  !  " 

These  words  fell  like  a  spark  on  tinder.  The  long- 
smouldering  flame  burst  into  destructiveness.  The  faces 
of  the  soldiers  took  on  an  expression  of  animal  ferocity. 
No  one  understood  nor  wished  to  hear,  but  all  shouted — 

'  *  Where  are  the  rascals  ?    Kill  the  hounds  ! ' ' 

"Who?" 

"  The  envoys  from  the  Emperor  Constantius  !  '* 

"  Down  with  the  Emperor  !  " 

"  Ah,  the  idiots  ! — to  think  they  've  killed  such  a 
leader!" 

Two  innocent  centurions  who  were  passing  were 
seized,  thrown  to  earth,  trampled  upon  and  almost 
rent  in  pieces.  At  the  sight  of  the  gushing  blood  the 
mutineers  became  yet  more  ferocious.  Another  mob 
coming  over  the  bridge  swept  up  to  the  barracks,  and 
there  rose  a  deafening  cry — 

* '  Glory  to  the  Emperor  Julian  !  Glory  to  Augustus 
Julian  I  " 

*'  He  is  slain  !     He  is  slain  !  " 

"  Hold  your  peace,  fools;  Augustus  is  alive!  We  've 
just  seen  him  !  " 

''TheC^sar's  alive!" 

"  He  's  no  longer  Caesar,  but  Emperor  !," 

**  Who  said  he  was  killed  ?  " 

''  Where  is  the  blackguard  ?  " 

"  They  tried  to  kill  him  !  " 

''Who?" 

''  Constantius  !" 

*'  Down  with  Constantius!  Down  with  all  cursed 
eunuchs ! " 

Someone  on  horseback  rode  by  so  quickly  as  almost 
to  escape  recognition — 


2o6  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

**  Deceiisius  !  Decensius  !  Catch  the  ruffian  !  " 
Still  with  pen  behind  his  ear  and  ink-flask  dangling 
from  his  girdle,  accompanied  by  insults  and  laughter, 
he  disappeared  from  sight.  The  crowd  grew  thicker 
and  thicker,  and  the  mutinous  army  was  like  a  raging 
flood  ;  but  their  anger  was  turned  into  glee  when  the 
Herulian  and  Petulant  legions,  who  had  marched 
the  evening  before,  and  also  mutinied,  were  seen  in 
the  distance  on  their  way  back.  They,  their  wives,  and 
their  children  were  kissed  with  emotion,  as  after  a  long 
separation.  Some  shed  tears  of  joy,  others  struck  their 
shields  ;  and  great  bonfires  were  kindled.  The  foun- 
tains of  oratory  were  unloosed.  Strombix,  who  in  his 
youth  had  been  a  buffoon  at  Antioch,  felt  himself  in- 
spired, and,  hoisted  with  wild  gesticulations  on  the 
shoulders  of  his  comrades,  began — 

*  *  Nos  quidem  ad  orbis  terrarum  extrema  ut  noxii 
pellimur  et  damnati  ..." 

*'  They  're  sending  us  to  the  other  end  of  the  world 
like  criminals  ;  and  our  families,  whom  we  bought 
back  from  slavery  with  the  price  of  our  blood,  will  fall 

back  into  the  hands  of  the  Alemanni " 

He  was  unable  to  finish  ;  the  barracks  were  ringing 
with  piercing  cries,  and  the  noise,  familiar  to  soldiers, 
of  scourges  scoring  the  back.  The  legionaries  were 
lashing  the  detested  centurion  Cedo  Alteram,  and  the 
soldier  who  was  administering  the  lashes  to  his  superior 
flung  away  the  bloody  rod,  and  to  the  general  amuse- 
ment, imitating  the  cheery  voice  of  the  centurion, 
called  out — 

* '  Cedo  Alteram  !    Give  me  another  ! ' ' 
* '  To  the  palace !    To  the  palace !  ' '  yelled  the  crowd. 
"  Let  us  make  Julian,  Augustus!     I,et  us  crown  him 
with  a  diadem  !  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  207 

The  mob  rushed  off,  leaving  in  the  courtyard  the 
half-dead  centurion  weltering  in  blood.  Through  the 
dark  clouds  the  stars  sparkled  here  and  there,  and  a 
cold  wind  lifted  the  dust.  The  barred  windows,  doors, 
and  shutters  of  the  palace  were  all  hermetically  sealed. 
The  building  seemed  tenantless. 

Foreseeing  the  revolt,  Julian  had  not  left  his  quar-, 
ters  nor  shown  himself  to  the  soldiers,  being  occupied 
in  divinations.  For  two  days  and  two  nights  he  had 
waited  for  a  miracle.  Clothed  in  the  long  white  robe 
of  the  Pythagoreans,  lamp  in  hand,  he  was  ascending 
the  steps  which  led  to  the  highest  tower.  There  the 
assistant  of  Maximus  of  Kphesus  was  awaiting  him, 
and  observing  the  stars.  This  assistant  was  no  other 
than  Nogodares,  who  once  in  the  tavern  owned  by 
Syrax  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Argseus  had  foretold  the 
future  to  the  tribune  Scuda. 

*'  Well  ?  "  Julian  asked  anxiously. 

**  There  's  nothing  to  be  seen!  It  looks  as  if  heaven 
and  earth  were  conspiring." 

A  bat  swooped  by. 

'*  lyook,  look  !  Perhaps  some  prediction  can  be  made 
from  the  manner  of  its  flight  ?  ' ' 

The  night-wandering  creature  almost  brushed 
Julian's  face  with  its  cold  wings,  and  vanished 

"  Someone's  soul  approaches,"  murmured  Nogo- 
dares. '  *  Remember  !  this  night  something  great  will 
be  accomplished.   ..." 

The  indistinct  cries  of  the  mutineers  were  borne 
faintly  up  the  wind. 

**  If  a  sign  appears,  come  to  me,"  said  Julian  as  he 
went  down  to  his  library. 

With  irregular  restless  strides  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  halting  every  now  and  then  to  listen. 


2o8  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

It  seemed  as  if  someone  was  following  him  ;  that  a 
curious  cold  air  was  blowing  on  the  nape  of  his  neck. 
He  wheeled  round,  but  discovered  nothing.  He  felt 
the  blood  beating  strongly  in  his  temples.  He  resumed 
his  walk,  and  again  it  seemed  that  someone  was  mur- 
muring into  his  ear  words  that  he  had  not  time  to 
understand. 

A  servant  entered,  and  announced  that  an  old  man 
from  Athens  desired  to  see  the  Caesar  on  urgent  busi- 
ness. Julian  uttered  a  cry  of  elation  and  ran  to  meet  the 
new-comer.  He  thought  he  should  see  Maximus  ;  but 
he  was  mistaken.  It  was  the  high-priest  of  the  myster- 
ies of  Bleusis,  whom  also  he  had  impatiently  expected. 

"  Father  !  "  exclaimed  Julian,  "  save  me  !  I  must 
know  the  will  of  the  gods  !  .  .  .  Let  us  come  quickly, 
for  all  is  prepared." 

Round  the  palace  resounded  deafening  cries  from  the 
revolted  army,  shaking  the  old  brickwork  of  the  walls. 
But  when  a  baggage-carrier,  livid  with  fear,  ran  in  ex- 
claiming, *'  Mutiny  !  The  soldiers  are  breaking  in  the 
iron  gates  !  "  Julian  said  with  an  imperious  gesture, 
"  Fear  nothing  !  We  will  arrange  that  matter  pres- 
ently. Let  no  one  come  into  my  presence  !  "  and  tak- 
ing the  high-priest  by  the  hand  he  hastily  led  him  into 
a  dark  underground  vault,  and  closed  the  heavy  iron 
door.  All  was  there  ready.  Torch -flames  were  glitter- 
ing over  the  silver  image  of  the  Sun-god,  and  tripods 
fuming;  the  holy  vessels,  full  of  water,  wine,  and 
honey,  stood  prepared,  with  salt  and  flour  to  be  sprin- 
kled on  the  bodies  of  the  victims.  Geese,  doves,  hens, 
an  eagle,  and  a  white  lamb  which  bleated  plaintively, 
stood  round  in  different  cages. 

"  Quicker,  quicker  !  "  exclaimed  Julian,  giving  a 
long  dagger  to  the  priest. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  209 

The  old  man,  who  was  panting  heavily,  began  hur- 
riedly to  mutter  prayers  ;  he  killed  the  lamb,  put  a 
portion  of  the  flesh  and  fat  upon  the  coals  of  the  altar, 
and  with  mysterious  exorcisms  began  the  inspection  of 
its  organs.  With  expert  hands  he  drew  forth  the  liver, 
heart,  and  lungs,  and  scanned  them  from  every  side. 

' '  The  powerful  shall  be  overthrown  !  "  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  heart,  which  was  still  warm  ;  "  a  terri- 
ble death  ..." 

''  Whose  ?  "  Julian  asked.     ''  His  or  mine  ?  " 

''  I  know  not." 

''You  know  not?" 

**  Caesar,"  said  the  old  man,  **  be  not  hasty.  Decide 
nothing  to-night  ;  wait  for  the  day  ;  the  presages  are 
doubtful  ..." 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  took  another  vic- 
tim, a  gander,  and  then  an  eagle.  Overhead  the  noise 
of  the  crowd  at  the  gates  swept  like  the  roar  of  a  tor- 
rent. Blows  of  a  battering-ram  shook  the  iron  doors, 
but  Julian  heard  nothing.  He  examined  the  bloody 
opgans  with  eager  curiosity. 

The  old  sacrificial  priest  repeated  : 

"  Decide  nothing  to-night  ;  the  gods  are  silent." 

*'  But  now  is  the  moment!  "  cried  Julian  in  vexation. 

Nogodares  came  in,  and  solemnly  spoke  : 

"Julian,  rejoice  !  to-night  your  destiny  is  decided 
,  .  .  but  make  haste !     Afterwards  it  will  be  too  late." 

The  soothsayer  looked  at  the  hierophant ;  the  hiero- 
phant  at  the  soothsayer. 

*'  Wait!  "  said  the  priest  of  Kleusis. 

**  Dare  !  "  said  Nogodares. 

Julian  stood  between  the  two,  in  perplexity  scrutinis* 
ing  both. 

The  faces  of  the  augurs  remained  impenetrable. 


2IO  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

*'  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  he  murmured  to  himself. 
Then  he  remembered,  and  exclaimed  joyfully  : 

"  One  moment  !  I  have  an  ancient  book  in  my 
library,  Concerning  Contradiction  in  Auguries ;  we 
shall  see  !  " 

He  hurried  to  the  library  ;  but  in  a  passage  he  en- 
countered the  bishop  Dorotheus,  in  sacerdotal  dress, 
bearing  the  crucifix  and  the  sacred  Viaticum. 

**  What  is  this  ?  "  asked  Julian. 

'*  The  Viaticum  for  your  wife,  who  is  dying,  O 
Caesar!" 

Dorotheus  looked  with  severity  at  the  robes  of  Julian, 
his  pale  face,  and  his  blood-stained  hands. 

*'  Your  wife,"  continued  the  bishop,  ''  desires  to  see 
you  before  her  death.     Will  you  come  ?  ' ' 

'  *  Yes !  .  .  .  yes !  later !  .  .  .  O  gods !  .  .  .  another 
ill  omen." 

He  entered  the  library  and  began  to  rummage  among 
the  parchments.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  voice  murmur- 
ing distinctly  in  his  ear  : 

''  Dare  !  dare  !  dare  !" 

"  Maximus,  it  is  thou  !  "  exclaimed  Julian,  wheeling 
round. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  dark  apartment. 

Julian's  heart  beat  so  strongly  that  he  pressed  his 
hand  against  his  side  ;  a  cold  sweat  stood  on  his  fore- 
head. 

"  This — this  is  what  I  was  waiting  for!  "  murmured 
Julian.  "The  voice  was  'his';  now,  all  doubt  is 
over!  ...     I  will  go!  " 

The  barred  gates  had  given  way  with  a  crash. 
Legionaries  were  pouring  into  the  atrium,  thrilling  the 
old  palace  with  their  cries,  while  the  crimson  glare  of 
the  torches  shone  through  the  chinks  of  shutters  like  the 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  211 

light  of  a  conflagration.  Not  a  minute  was  to  be  lost. 
Casting  away  his  white  robes,  Julian  donned  his  ar- 
mour, paludamentum,  war  cloak,  and  helmet,  buckled 
on  his  sword,  and  ran  down  the  principal  staircase  lead- 
ing to  the  entrance.  He  opened  the  door  and  presented 
himself  to  the  soldiers  with  a  calm  and  unshaken  de- 
meanour. All  doubts  had  disappeared.  While  in 
action  his  will  never  vacillated  ;  but  never  up  to  that 
day  had  he  been  conscious  of  such  a  fulness  of  inward 
force,  such  clearness  and  self-possession  of  mind.  In  a 
moment  the  crowd  felt  that  supremacy.  The  pale  face 
of  Julian  was  imperial  and  awe-striking,  and  at  a  ges- 
ture from  him  the  mob  was  silenced.  Julian  spoke  to 
the  soldiers,  asking  them  to  restore  order  ;  he  would 
neither  abandon  them  nor  permit  that  they  should  be 
taken  from  Gaul  ;  on  that  head  he  would  convince  his 
well-beloved  brother,  the  Bmperor  Constantius. 

"  Down  with  Constantius  !  "  interrupted  the  legion- 
aries. "  Down  with  him  who  slew  his  brother  !  Thou 
art  our  Emperor  !  Glory  to  Augustus  Julian,  the  In- 
vincible !  " 

Admirably  did  Julian  afifect  surprise,  and,  as  if 
startled,  lowered  his  eyes  and  turned  aside  his  head 
with  a  deprecating  gesture  of  his  lifted  palms,  as  put- 
ting away  from  him  so  criminal  a  gift.  The  shouts 
redoubled. 

*' What  is  this?"  said  Julian,  feigning  dismay, 
*'  You  are  ruining  me  and  you  are  ruining  yourselves- 
Do  you  think  that  I  can  betray  my  sovereign  ?  " 

**  Yes!  your  brother's  murderer !  "  shouted  the  men. 

**  Silence  !  "  answered  Julian,  striding  towards  the 
crowd.     "  Do  you  not  know  that  we  are  sworn  .  .  .  ?  " 

Every  movement  was  a  hypocritical  ruse.  When  the 
soldiers  surged  round  him  he  drew  his  sword  from  its 


212  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

sheath  and  pointed  it  against  his  own  breast  as  if  to 
fall  on  it. 

"  Bravest  of  the  brave  !  better  die  for  Caesar  than 
betray  him  ! ' ' 

But  the  men,  seizing  his  hands,  disarmed  him,  and 
many,  falling  at  his  feet,  kissed  them,  weeping — 

* '  Ah  !  we  are  willing  to  die  for  you  ! ' ' 

Others  stretched  out  their  hands,  groaning — 

'  *  Have  pity  on  us  ;  be  our  Augustus  ! ' ' 

The  heart  of  Julian  was  thrilled.  He  loved  these 
rough  faces,  the  barrack-atmosphere,  and  the  un- 
rivalled enthusiasm  in  which  he  felt  his  own  power. 

He  saw  that  the  mutiny  was  dangerous  and  in  earn- 
est, observing  that  the  legionaries  did  not  interrupt 
each  other,  but  shouted  unanimously,  and  became  sud- 
denly hushed,  as  if  their  action  had  been  concerted 
beforehand. 

There  was  either  a  deafening  hubbub,  or  absolute 
silence. 

Finally,  Julian,  with  an  effort  that  might  well  have 
been  thought  sincere — 

**  My  children  !  my  dear  comrades!  behold  me  .  .  . 
I  am  yours  in  life  and  in  death.  I  can  refuse  you 
nothing  !  " 

**  Crown  him!    The  diadem  !  "  they  cried,  triumph 
antly. 

But  no  diadem  was  to  be  found. 

Strombix  proposed— 

**  Let  Augustus  order  that  his  wife's  necklet  of 
pearls  be  brought  here  !  * ' 

Julian  answered  that  a  woman's  ornament  would  be 
unfitting,  and  an  ill  presage  with  which  to  inaugurate 
a  reign. 

But  the  men  were  unsatisfied.     They  insisted  on 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  213 

seeing  a  sign  of  regality  shining  on  the  head  of  their 
chosen,  to  make  him  their  Emperor  indeed.  One  of  the 
legionaries  snatched  from  his  war-horse  the  phalerae, 
or  forehead  trapping,  with  its  string  of  metal  disks,  for 
the  crowning  of  Augustus. 

But  neither  did  this  please  him,  for  the  ornament 
stank  with  the  sweat  of  the  horse.  Everyone  cast 
about  to  find  another  decoration,  and  at  last  the  stand- 
ard-bearer of  the  Petulant  legion,  the  Sarmatian 
Aragaris,  pulled  from  his  neck  the  metal  chain  de- 
noting his  rank,  and  Julian  wound  it  twice  round  his 
own  head.     This  chain  made  him  Emperor  of  Rome. 

'''  Hoist  him  on  a  shield  !  on  a  shield  !  "  shouted  the 
soldiery. 

Aragaris  tendered  his  round  buckler.  Hundreds  of 
arms  heaved  the  Emperor.  He  saw  a  sea  of  helmet ed 
heads,  and  heard,  like  the  rolling  of  thunder,  the 
exultant  cry — 

''  Glory  to  Julian,  the  divine  Augustus  !  " 

It  seemed  the  will  of  destiny.  One  by  one  the 
torches  were  extinguished.  The  clamour  died  away  ; 
and  the  eastern  sky  was  barred  with  soft  white  bands. 
The  dark  and  dull  mass  of  the  palace- towers  became 
clear  in  all  its  ugliness  ;  a  single  lighted  window  was 
still  visible.  Julian  guessed  that  this  must  be  the  light 
in  the  cell  where  Helena  lay  dying. 

And  when  at  dawn  the  wearied  army  dispersed,  he 
went  to  the  bedside  of  his  wife.  It  was  too  late.  The 
dead  woman  lay  quietly  on  her  virgin  couch  ;  the  lips 
severely  closed.  Julian  felt  no  remorse,  but  painful 
curiosity  moved  him  as  he  gazed  at  the  dark  face  of  his 
wife,  wondering — 

"  What  was  that  last  desire  ?  What  did  she  wish  to 
say  to  me  ?  '* 


XXII 

THE  Emperor  Constantius  taeantime  was  passing 
at  Antioch  a  somewhat  melancholy  period.  At 
night  he  had  alarming  visions  and  kept  six  lamps  burn- 
ing in  his  chamber  till  daybreak  in  the  vain  endeavour 
to  relieve  his  fears  of  darkness.  Hour  after  hour 
would  he  lie  motionless  and  moody,  starting  at  the 
least  sound.  Once  he  dreamed  he  saw  his  father, 
Constantine  the  Great,  holding  a  sturdy  and  mischiev- 
ous child  in  his  arms.  Constantius  took  the  child  and 
placed  him  on  his  right  hand,  attempting  the  while  to 
hold  in  his  left  a  great  ball  of  crystal.  But  the  child 
in  wilfulness  pushed  the  globe,  which  fell  and  broke  ; 
and  its  fragments,  piercing  like  needles,  buried  them- 
selves in  the  body  of  Constantius,  darting  with  intoler- 
able pain,  burning,  and  hissing  into  his  brain,  eyes, 
and  heart.  The  Emperor  awoke,  bathed  in  a  cold  per- 
spiration. He  consulted  sorcerers,  diviners,  celebrated 
magicians.  Troops  were  assembled  at  Antioch  for  a 
campaign  against  Julian.  Sometimes  after  a  moody 
fit  of  immobility  the  Emperor  was  seized  with  an  im- 
pulse to  action  ;  the  greater  number  of  Court  officials 
found  this  haste  unreasonable,  and  confided  to  each 
other  their  fears  as  to  the  mental  state  of  the  august 
sovereign. 

The  autumn  was  reaching  its  end  when  he  left  An- 
tioch. At  noon,  about  three  miles  from  the  city,  near 
the  village  of  Hypocephalus,  the  Emperor  saw  an  un- 
known mutilated  body  lying  on  the  road.     Facing  the 

114 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  215 

south  the  corpse  was  stretched  to  the  right  of  Constan- 
tius,  who  was  on  horseback.  The  head  was  separated 
from  the  body. 

The  Kmperor  grew  pale  and  turned  away.  None  of 
the  riders  round  him  uttered  a  word,  all  being  aware 
that  the  omen  was  an  evil  one.  In  the  town  of  Tarsus 
in  Cilicia,  Constantius  had  shivering  fits  and  felt  weak- 
ness, but  he  paid  them  no  attention  nor  consulted 
leeches,  believing  that  riding  in  the  hot  sun  over  the 
steep  mountains  would  produce  reaction  and  relief. 

He  rode  towards  the  little  town  of  Mopsucrenam  at 
the  foot  of  Mount  Tarsus,  the  last  halting-place  before 
crossing  the  Cilician  border. 

On  the  way  he  suffered  several  times  from  violent 
giddiness,  which  obliged  him  to  dismount  and  lie  down 
in  a  litter.  Subsequently  the  eunuch  Eusebius  tells 
how,  when  lying  in  the  palanquin,  the  Emperor  took 
from  his  bosom  and  tenderly  kissed  a  precious  stone  on 
which  was  engraven  the  profile  of  the  late  Empress 
Eusebia  Aurelia. 

At  one  of  the  cross-roads  he  asked  whither  one  of  the 
ways  led,  and  when  he  was  told  to  the  abandoned  palace 
of  the  kings  of  Cappadocia,  at  Macellum,  his  brow 
clouded.  Mopsucrenam  was  reached  at  night-fall.  Con- 
stantius was  weary  and  full  of  gloom.  Hardly  had  he 
entered  the  house  which  had  been  prepared  when  one 
of  the  courtiers,  against  the  command  of  Eusebius, 
thoughtlessly  announced  to  the  Emperor  that  two 
couriers  from  the  southern  provinces  were  awaiting 
him. 

Constantius  ordered  them  to  be  admitted,  in  spite 
of  the  supplications  of  Eusebius,  his  favourite  chamber- 
lain, who  advised  him  to  postpone  business  till  the 
morrow.     The  Emperor  declared  that  he  felt  better. 


2i6  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

and  suffered  from  nothing  but  a  slight  pain  at  the  nape 
of  his  neck. 

The  first  courier,  trembling  and  livid,  was  ushered 
in. 

*'  Tell  me  all,  immediately!  "  exclaimed  Constantius, 
dismayed  at  the  man's  expression. 

The  courier  then  narrated  the  audacious  movements 
of  Julian,  who,  before  the  assembled  army,  had  torn  up 
the  Imperial  rescript.  Gaul,  Pannonia,  Aquitania, 
had  submitted  to  Julian,  and  the  traitorous  army  was 
advancing  to  encounter  Constantius,  with  all  the 
legions  to  be  gathered  from  those  provinces. 

The  Emperor  stood  up,  his  face  disfigured  by  fury, 
and,  seizing  the  messenger  by  the  throat,  shook  him. 

**  You  lie,  caitiff !  You  lie  !  You  lie  !  .  .  .  There 
is  still  a  God  in  heaven  to  shield  the  kings  of  the  earth 
.  .  .  and  He  will  not  permit,  do  you  understand !  .  .  . 
Fools  !  .  .  .     He  will  not  permit.  ..." 

He  had  a  spasm  of  weakness,  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand  ;  the  courier,  more  dead  than  alive, 
slunk  to  the  door. 

**  To-morrow,"  stammered  Constantius  wildly;  "to- 
morrow we  absolutely  must  set  out  !  ...  by  forced 
marches,  direct  ...  as  the  crow  flies  .  .  .  over  the 
mountains.  .  .  .  We  absolutely  must  go  to  Constan- 
tinople." 

Kusebius  approached  him,  with  the  humblest  of 
bows— T 

"  Divine  Augustus  !  The  I^ord  God  has  granted 
you,  you  His  chosen,  victory  over  your  enemies.  You 
have  annihilated  Magnentius,  Constantius,  Vetranio, 
Gallus.     You  will  crush  this  impious ' ' 

But  Constantius,  wagging  his  head  without  listening, 
muttered — 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  217 

* '  Then  He  exists  not  ;  if  it  is  all  true,  and  I  am 
single-handed,  alone  !  Who  dares  to  say  that  '  He  ' 
exists,  when  such  crimes  can  be  accomplished  !  I  've 
been  thinking  so  a  long  time.  ..." 

He  cast  a  dull  }ook  on  the  courtiers  present  and 
said — 

''Call  in  the  other." 

A  physician  came  up — a  courtier-like  person,  with  a 
clean-shaven  rosy  face,  an  Armenian  who  assumed  the 
airs  of  a  Roman  patrician.  He  observed  respectfully 
that  too  keen  emotion  might  be  harmful  to  the  Em- 
peror, that  he  should  rest.  .  .  .  Constantius  waved 
him  away  like  an  irritating  fly. 

The  second  courier  was  shown  in.  He  was  Cintula, 
the  tribune  of  the  Imperial  stables,  who  had  escaped 
from  Lutetia.  He  brought  the  terrible  news  that  the 
inhabitants  of  Sirmium  *  had  opened  their  doors  to 
Julian,  and  welcomed  him  as  the  saviour  of  the  country. 
In  two  days  he  would  debouch  on  the  great  Roman 
road  leading  to  Constantinople. 

The  Emperor  either  did  not  hear,  or  did  not  under- 
stand, the  last  words  of  the  messenger.  His  face  be- 
came strangely  rigid.  He  made  a  gesture  of  dis- 
missal to  all  present.  Eusebius  alone  remained  to 
talk  the  business  over  with  him.  In  another  quarter 
of  an  hour  Constantius  ordered  that  he  should  be  as- 
sisted to  his  chamber,  and  made  several  steps.  Then 
a  cry  escaped  him  ;  he  pressed  his  hands  to  his  head, 
as  if  he  suddenly  felt  terrible  pain.  Courtiers  ran  to 
support  him.  The  Emperor  did  not  lose  conscious- 
ness. By  his  face  and  movements,  and  the  veins, 
standing  out  like  whipcord  on  his  forehead,  it  was 
evident  that  he  was  making  fearful  efforts  to  speak. 
*  On  the  Save,  at  no  great  distance  from  Belgrade. 


2i8  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Finally  he  stammered  slowly,  word  by  word,  as  if  being 
throttled  by  an  iron  collar — 

*'  I — want — to — speak — and — I — cannot !  "  Those 
were  his  last  words  ;  paralysis  had  stricken  the  whole 
of  his  right  side.     His  arm  and  leg  fell  inert. 

He  was  carried  to  bed,  but  his  eyes  were  wakeful 
and  intelligent,  and  he  struggled  to  utter  something — 
some  important  order  perhaps.  From  his  lips  came 
only  confused  sounds,  like  weak  lowings.  No  one 
understood  what  he  wanted,  and  the  invalid  fixed  his 
clear  gaze  in  turn  on  each  present.  Eunuchs,  cour- 
tiers, generals,  slaves,  thronged  round  the  dying  man, 
helplessly  desirous  of  doing  his  last  behest. 

At  moments  the  clear  eye  became  angered  and  the 
lowing  hoarse.  At  last  Eusebius  understood,  and 
brought  wax  and  tablets.  At  the  sight  of  these  a  flash 
of  joy  was  seen  on  the  Emperor's  face.  He  gripped 
the  steel  stylus  awkwardly,  like  a  child.  After  some 
struggles,  he  succeeded  in  tracing  a  few  letters  on  the 
soft  wax,  and  the  courtiers  with  diflSculty  deciphered 
the  word  ''Baptism. ' '  Constantius  fixed  his  supplicat- 
ing look  on  Eusebius,  and  everybody  wondered  at  not 
having  understood  before.  He  was  desirous  of  being 
baptised  before  death,  having,  like  his  father  Constan- 
tine,  always  postponed  this  sacrament  to  the  last,  in 
the  belief  that  he  could  then  miraculously  cleanse  his 
soul  and  leave  it  whiter  than  snow.  A  messenger  was 
despatched  for  the  bishop.  There  proved  to  be  none 
in  Mopsucrenam,  and  recourse  was  had  to  the  Arian 
priest  of  the  basilica.  He  was  a  timid  man,  with  a 
bird-like  face,  red-nosed,  with  a  goat's  beard,  and  a 
provincial  manner. 

When  disturbed  by  the  messengers,  Father  Nym- 
phodion  was  enjoying  his  tenth  wine-cup,and  seemed  in 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  219 

too  cheerful  a  mood.  It  was  impossible  to  make  clear 
to  him  the  matter  in  hand,  and  he  grew  angry  at  what 
he  believed  to  be  raillery.  But  when  at  length  con- 
vinced that  fate  had  designated  him  to  baptise  an  Em- 
peror he  nearly  lost  his  reason.  When  he  entered  the 
chamber  of  the  sick  man,  the  Emperor  gazed  on  the 
trembling  priest  with  such  humility  that  it  was  evident 
he  feared  to  die,  and  was  eager  to  hasten  the  ceremony. 
Meantime  the  town  had  been  scoured  in  vain  for  a 
basin  of  gold  or  silver.  It  is  true  that  a  jewelled  one 
was  available,  but  it  had  served  for  the  bacchic  mys- 
teries of  Dionysus  ;  and  the  common  copper  basin  used 
by  the  parishioners  of  the  basilica  was  therefore  prefer- 
able. This  copper  basin  was  brought  to  the  bed  and 
warm  water  poured  into  it.  The  doctor  was  about  to 
feel  its  temperature,  but  the  Emperor  made  a  brusque 
movement  and  groaned,  lest  the  water  should  be  sullied. 
The  dying  man's  tunic  was  taken  off.  Strong  arms  of 
legionaries  raised  him,  like  a  child,  and  immersed  him. 
The  wasted  face  of  Constantius,  his  eyes  fixed  and  wide 
open,  stared  at  the  cross  fixed  above  the  Labarum,  the 
golden  standard  of  Constantine.  It  was  an  obstinate 
and  vacuous  stare,  as  of  children  when  they  see  some 
dazzling  object  and  cannot  turn  away  from  it. 

The  ceremony  did  not  soothe  the  sick  inan,  who 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  everything.  Volition  came 
into  his  eyes  for  the  last  time  when  Eusebius  again 
stretched  out  to  him  the  waxen  tablet,  but  Constantius, 
unable  to  write,  only  traced  with  his  finger  the  name 
^^  Julian y  Did  he  desire  to  pardon  his  enemy  or  to 
bequeath  his  vengeance  ? 

For  three  days  he  lay  in  the  extremity  of  death  ; 
courtiers  murmured  to  each  other  that  this  was  evi- 
dently some  special  punishment  of  God,  who  would 


220  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

not  permit  him  to  die.  But  they  referred  to  him  always 
as  ''  The  Divine  Augustus,"  ''  His  Holiness,"  and 
**  The  Eternal."  His  sufferings  must  have  been  great; 
the  low  moaning  turned  into  a  steady  death-rattle, 
which  went  on  day  and  night.  Courtiers  came  in  and 
went  out,  eagerly  hoping  for  the  end.  The  eunuch 
Eusebius  alone  never  left  his  master.  Many  a  crime 
had  this  eunuch  upon  his  conscience  ;  all  the  tangled 
threads  of  reports,  espials,  and  ecclesiastical  broils  were 
gathered  in  his  hands.  But  he  alone  in  the  palace 
proved  his  love  to  his  master,  and  at  night  when  every- 
one was  sleeping,  or  had  withdrawn,  worn  out  by  the 
task  of  nursing,  Eusebius  remained  by  the  bedside, 
arranging  pillows,  cooling  the  dry  lips  with  ice,  or 
kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  Emperor  in  prayer.  When 
none  saw,  Eusebius  would  gently  lift  the  purple  cover- 
let and  weepingly  kiss  the  feet,  now  pale  and  be- 
numbed. Once  it  seemed  to  him  that  Constantius 
noticed  this  caress  and  thanked  him  with  a  look. 
Something  fraternal  and  tender  passed  between  the 
two  cruel,  ill-starred,  and  solitary  men. 

Eusebius  closed  the  eyes  of  the  Emperor  ;  the  Church 
recited  over  him,  before  the  body  was  committed  to  the 
tomb — 

'  *  Rise  again,  O  king  of  the  earth !     Answer  the  sum 
ttions  of  thy  coming  Judge,  the  King  of  kings  ! ' ' 


XXIII 

NOT  far  from  Sued,  a  mountainous  defile  in  the 
Hsemus  range  ^  between  Moesia  and  Thrace,  two 
men  were  making  their  way  along  a  narrow  path,  at 
night,  through  a  forest  of  beeches.  They  were  the 
Emperor  Julian  and  Maximus  the  enchanter.  The  full 
moon  was  shining  in  a  clear  sky,  and  strangely  illu- 
minating the  gold  and  purple  of  autumn  foliage.  From 
time  to  time  a  wan  yellow  leaf  would  fall  swirling  with 
a  slight  rustle.  The  air  was  full  of  moisture  and  the 
musty  smell  of  a  tardy  autumn— that  soft,  chill  melan- 
choly odour  which  puts  men  in  mind  of  death.  The 
soft  masses  of  leaves  made  a  brushing  sound  under  the 
feet  of  the  travellers,  and  round  them  in  the  silent 
woods  burned  the  magnificent  obsequies  of  the  depart- 
ing year. 

"  Master,"  asked  Julian,  **  why  is  not  that  divine 
lightness  mine,  that  gaiety  which  used  to  make  so 
splendid  the  men  of  Hellas  ?  " 

*'  You  are  not  a  man  of  Hellas."  \ 

Julian  sighed — 

''  Alas,  our  ancestors  were  barbarians,  Medes  ;  and 
the  sluggish  blood  of  the  North  flows  in  my  veins.  It 
is  true,  I  am  no  son  of  the  Hellenes  ! ' ' 

''  My  friend,  Hellas  has  never  existed,"  murmured 
Maximus,  w^ith  his  old  bewitching  smile. 

'*  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Julian. 

"  The  Hellas  that  you  love  has  never  existed." 
^The  Balkans. 


2  22  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  my  faith  is  futile  ?  " 
f         **  We  are  only  to  believe,"  answered  Maximus,  '*  in 
what  is  not,  but  shall  be.     Your  Hellas  shall  exist, 
shall  be  the  reign,  the  kingdom  ot  divine  men,  men 
daring  all  things,  fearing  none." 

**  Fearing  none  !  .  .  .  Master,  powerful  enchant- 
ments are  thine  .  .  .     Deliver  my  soul  from  fear  !  " 

"  Fear  of  what?" 

"  I  cannot  say,  but  from  childhood  I  have  been 
afraid — afraid  of  life,  of  death,  of  myself,  of  the  mys- 
tery in  all  things,  of  the  darkness.  ...  I  had  an  old 
nurse,  I^abda,  like  a  Parca,  a  Fate,  who  used  to  spin 
me  terrible  tales  of  my  family,  the  Flavii.  These  mad 
old-wives'  tales  keep  singing  in  my  ears  still,  at  night, 
when  I  am  alone.  They  will  ruin  me  some  day.  .  . 
I  wish  to  be  free,  as  one  of  the  old  Hellenes  .  .  .  and  I 
have  no  gladness  in  me.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  think  I  am 
a  coward,  Master  !  .  .  .  Master,  save  me  !  Deliver 
me  from  that  eternal  fear,  these  consuming  dark- 
nesses !  " 

*'  Ah,  I  have  long  known  the  need  of  your  soul," 
said  Maximus,  gravely,  '*  and  from  this  very  day  I  will 
cleanse  you  from  this  Galilean  corruption  —  slay  the 
shadow  of  Golgotha  in  the  radiance  of  Mithra  —  warm 
afresh  your  body,  frozen  at  baptism,  in  the  hot  blood 
of  the  Sun-god  !  .  .  .  My  son,  rejoice  !  for  I  will  give 
you  such  freedom,  such  joy  as  no  man  on  earth  has  yet 
possessed  !  " 

They  issued  from  the  wood,  and  followed  a  narrow 
path,  hewn  through  the  rock,  above  a  chasm  in  which 
a  torrent  ran  seething.  Stones,  loosened  by  their  feet, 
rolled  echoing  down  and  plunged  into  the  water.  High 
over  the  forest  they  saw  the  distant  snow-covered  sum- 
mits of  Mount  Rhodope.    Julian  and  Maximus  at  last 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  223 

reached  and  entered  the  mouth  of  a  cave.  It  was  the 
temple  of  the  Sun-god  Mithra,  where  mysteries,  for- 
bidden by  the  Roman  laws,  were  performed.  In  this 
cavern  there  was  no  sign  of  splendour  ;  the  bleak  walls 
were  engraven  with  cabalistic  signs  of  Zoroastrian  re- 
ligion, triangles,  enlaced  circles,  winged  beasts,  and 
constellations.  Here  and  there  the  vaulted  obscu^rity 
was  relieved  by  dull  flames  of  torches  or  the  form  of  an 
initiating  priest  in  strange  and  sweeping  robes. 

Julian  was  arrayed  in  the  Olympian  robe,  embroid- 
ered with  Indian  monsters,  stars,  suns,  and  hyperborean 
dragons.  He  held  a  flambeau  in  his  right  hand.  Maxi- 
mus  had  acquainted  him  with  the  responses  to  be  made 
to  his  initiator,  and  Julian  had  learned  them  by  heart, 
although  their  meaning  hitherto  was  unintelligible  to 
him. 

With  Maximus  he  went  down  rock-hewn  steps  into  a 
long  and  deep  foss.  Here  the  air  was  already  humid 
and  stifling ;  but  to  make  it  more  so,  overhead  a  wooden 
trap-door,  riddled  with  holes  like  a  strainer,  was  low- 
ered across,  from  edge  to  edge.  The  trampling  of 
hoofs  resounded,  and  the  sacri fleers  placed  three  black 
bulls,  three  white  bulls,  and  a  red  bull  with  gilded 
hoofs  and  horns  on  the  trap  above  the  two  men. 
Then  the  initiators,  intoning  a  hymn  which  mingled 
with  the  bellowing  of  the  beasts,  felled  with  axes  one 
bull  after  another.  They  fell  on  their  knees  and 
struggled,  the  wooden  framework  trembled  under 
their  weight,  while  the  farthest  vaults  of  the  cavern 
resounded  to  the  cries  of  the  red  bull,  which  was  hailed 
as  the  god  Mithra.  Percolating  through  the  holes  in 
the  trap,  the  blood  fell  in  a  hot  shower  upon  the  head 
of  Julian.  This  slaying  of  the  bull  consecrated  to  the 
Sun  was  the  supreme  mystery  of  the  Pagans.  Throwing 


224  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

off  his  outer  clothes  and  standing  in  his  white  tunic 
only,  Julian  offered  head,  breast,  and  all  his  limbs 
to  the  terrible  trickling  rain.  Then  Maxim  us,  shak- 
ing the  torch  overhead,  cried — 

'*  Let  thy  soul  be  steeped  in  the  expiating  blood  of 
thy  god,  the  Sun,  in  the  purest  blood  of  the  ever- 
radiant  heart  of  thy  god,  the  Sun;  let  it  be  cleansed  in 
his  morning  and  in  his  evening  light  !  Dost  thou,  O 
mortal,  still  hold  anything  in  fear  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  response. 

*  *  Let  thy  soul  become  a  parcel  of  thy  god,  the  Sun  ! 
The  quenchless  and  inviolable  Mithra  takes  thee  to 
himself  !     Dost  thou  still  fear  anything,  O  mortal  ?  ' ' 

**  I  fear  nothing  more  on  the  earth,"  answered 
Julian,  who  was  now  streaming  with  blood  from  head 
to  foot.     "  I  am  even  as  He  is  !  " 

**  Take  this  crown,"  said  Maxiraus,  placing  a  wreath 
of  acanthus-leaves  on  the  head  of  Julian,  with  the  point 
of  his  sword. 

But  the  catechumen  flung  the  coronal  upon  the 
ground  with  a  cry — 

'*  The  Sun  only  is  my  crown,  the  Sun  alone  !  " 

Then  he  stamped  on  the  acanthus,  and  lifting  his 
arms  skyward  repeated  a  third  time — 

**  Now,  until  death,  my  crown  is  the  Sun  !  " 

The  mystery  was  over.  Maximus  kissed  the  initiate. 
On  the  face  of  the  old  man  as  he  did  so  hovered  a  gleam 
of  strange  significance. 

While  they  were  retracing  their  steps  through  the 
beech-forest  the  Emperor  spoke  to  the  enchanter — 

'*  Maximus,  I  think  you  are  hiding  from  me  some 
secret  deeper  yet."  He  turned  towards  the  old  man 
his  pale  face,  on  which,  as  was  the  custom,  the  traces 
of  the  sacred  blood  were  not  yet  wiped  away. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods         225 

••  What  do  you  wish  to  know,  Julian  ?  *' 

**  What  lot  shall  fall  to  me  ?  " 

*  *  You  will  conquer. ' ' 

"And  Constantius  ?  " 

*'  Constantius  is  no  more.** 

"  What  mean  you  ?  " 

"  Wait  !  the  Sun  shall  reveal  your  glory  !  '* 

Julian  dared  not  question  further.  Both  men  re- 
gained  the  camp  in  silence.  In  Julian's  tent  a  courier 
from  Asia  Minor,  the  tribune  Cintula,  stood  waiting. 
He  knelt  and  kissed  the  edge  of  the  Imperial  paluda- 
mentum — 

"  Glory  to  the  divine  Augustus  Julian  !  " 

**  Do  you  come  with  a  message  from  Constantius  ?  " 

"  Constantius  is  no  more  !  " 

'*  What  say  you?" 

Julian  trembled  and  threw  a  glance  at  Maximus, 
whose  face  remained  inscrutable. 

*'  By  the  will  of  God,"  continued  Cintula,  "  your 
enemy  departed  this  life  in  the  town  of  Mopsucrenam, 
not  far  from  Macellum." 

That  evening  the  army  assembled  on  a  hill.  The 
death  of  Constantius  was  alreadj^  made  known  to  them. 

Augustus  Claudius  Flavins  Julian  took  his  station 
on  a  hillock  so  that  all  the  soldiers  could  see  him  ; 
crownless,  weaponless,  unarmoured,  and  enswathed 
head  to  foot  in  purple.  To  conceal  the  traces  of  the 
blood,  which  might  not  be  washed  off,  he  had  enveloped 
his  head  and  veiled  his  face  in  the  purple  silk.  In 
this  attire  he  bore  the  appearance  rather  of  a  sacrificial 
priest  than  of  an  emperor.  Behind  him  rose  the  ruddy 
forest  wrapping  the  base  of  Mount  Haemus.  Above  his 
head  hung,  like  a  golden  banner,  the  yellow  branches 
of  a  maple.     Far  as  the  eye  could  see,  the  plain  of 


226  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Thrace  lay  below,  crossed  by  the  white  marble  pave- 
ment of  the  Roman  road  stretching  victoriously  away 
to  the  Propontic  Sea.  Julian  gazed  at  his  army. 
When  the  legions  moved  their  stations,  red  jElashes  from 
the  sunset  were  reflected  upon  burnished  helmets, 
breastplates,  and  eagles  ;  the  lances  above  the  cohorts 
seemed  like  lighted  tapers.  By  Julian's  side  was 
Maximus,  who  spoke  in  Caesar's  ear — 

''  lyook  forth  upon  this  sight  of  glory!  your  hour  is 
come  !     Act  now  !  " 

The  magician  pointed  to  the  Christian  banner,  the 
Labarum,  with  its  crest  of  the  monogram  of  Christ, 
the  flag  made  on  the  pattern  of  that  fiery  standard 
bearing  the  inscription,  '*  Through  this  shalt  thou  con- 
quer," which  Constantine  the  Great  had  seen  miracu- 
lous in  the  heavens. 

The  troops  made  no  stir.  Julian  in  a  clear  and 
solemn  voice  addressed  them — 

**  Comrades,  our  work  is  finished.  Now  we  will  go 
to  Constantinople !  Give  thanks  to  the  Olympians,  who 
have  given  us  the  victory  !  " 

-  These  words  were  only  heard  by  the  first  ranks,  but 
there  were  numerous  Christians  among  them.  These 
were  roused  by  the  last  startling  expression. 

* '  Lord  have  mercy  on  us !  what  is  it  he  says  ?  ' '  cried 
one. 

"  Do  you  see  that  old  man  with  the  white  beard  ?  " 
said  another  to  his  comrade. 

"  Yes." 

"  That 's  the  Devil,  who,  in  the  body  of  Maximus 
the  enchanter,  is  tempting  Caesar  ! ' ' 

But  the  more  distant  ranks,  who  had  not  heard 
Julian's  words,  cried — 

"Glory  to  Augustus  Julian!     Glory!    Glory!" 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  227 

and  louder  and  louder  yet  from  outskirts  of  the  hill, 
as  far  as  they  were  covered  by  the  legions,  arose  a 
cry  repeated  by  thousands  of  voices — 

"Glory!  .  .  .     Glory  !  .  .  ." 

Mountains,  air,  earth,  and  forest  trembled  with  the 
voice  of  the  multitude. 

*'  Look,  look!  "  murmured  the  dismayed  Christians  ; 
*'  the  Labarum  is  being  lowered  !  "  And  in  fact  the 
holy  banner  was  being  veiled  before  the  Emperor.  A 
military  blacksmith  came  down  from  the  wood  with  a 
brazier  and  red-hot  pincers. 

Julian,  whose  face,  in  spite  ot  the  ruddy  gleams  of 
the  purple  and  the  sun,  was  dark  with  strong  emotion, 
wrenched  the  golden  cross,  with  its  monogram  of 
precious  stones,  from  the  staff  of  the  Labarum.  Pearls, 
emeralds,  and  rubies  were  scattered  on  the  ground,  and 
the  glittering  cross  buried  in  the  earth,  stamped  under 
the  sandal  of  the  Roman  Caesar. 

From  a  casket  Maximus  immediately  drew  forth  a 
little  silver  statue  of  the  Sun-god,  Mithra-Helios  ;  and 
the  smith  in  a  few  instants  soldered  it  to  the  staff  of 
the  I^abarum. 

Before  the  army  had  recovered  from  its  astonishment 
and  fear,  Constantine's  sacred  banner  rose  above  the 
head  of  the  Emperor,  crowned  with  the  image  of 
Apollo.  An  old  soldier,  who  was  a  devout  Christian, 
turned  away  and  veiled  his  eyes  to  avoid  seeing  the 
sight  of  horror. 

"  Sacrilege!  sacrilege  !  "  he  muttered,  turning  pale. 

"  Woe,  woe,  upon  us!  "  groaned  another  ;  Satan  has 
entoiled  our  Emperor  ! ' ' 

Julian  knelt  before  the  standard  and,  stretching  out 
his  arms  to  the  little  silver  image,  exclaimed — 

' '  Glory  to  the  invincible  Sun,  king  of  all  gods  !  .  .  , 


2  28  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Augustus  worships  the  eternal  Helios  ;  god  of  light, 
god  of  reason,  god  of  the  gladness  and  joy  upon  Olym- 
pus !  " 

The  last  rays  of  sunset  lighted  the  bold  beauty  of 
the  god  of  Delphi,  and  rayed  his  head.  The  legionaries 
stood  in  silence,  save  that  in  the  wood  the  dry  leaves 
could  be  heard  falling.  The  conflagration  of  the  sun- 
set, the  purple  of  the  sacrificial  king,  the  withered 
woods,  all  these  breathed  a  magnificence  as  of  sumptu- 
ous obsequies.  One  of  the  men  in  the  front  rank  mut- 
tered a  single  word  so  distinctly  that  it  reached  Julian's 
ear,  and  thrilled  him — 

''Anti-Christ/*' 


PART  II 


299 


I 


HARD  by  the  stables,  in  the  Hippodrome  of  Con- 
stantinople, there  was  a  room  which  served  as  a 
sort  of  common  den  for  grooms,  women-riders,  actors, 
and  charioteers.  Even  in  daytime  lamps  were  kept 
burning  in  this  stifling  resort,  where  the  air  smelt 
strongly  of  dung- heap  and  stable.  When  the  curtain  at 
the  door  was  lifted  a  dazzling  flood  of  light  invaded 
this  den;  and  in  the  sunny  distance  could  be  seen 
empty  tiers  of  seats,  and  the  magnificent  staircase 
joining  the  Imperial  box  to  the  apartments  of  Constan- 
tine's  palace.  Egyptian  obelisks  also  were  seen  in  the 
arena  and  in  the  centre,  on  the  yellow  sand,  a  gigantic 
sacrificial  altar  of  marvellous  workmanship,  wrought 
of  three  entwined  serpents  of  bronze,  bearing  on  their 
flat  heads  a  Delphian  tripod. 

Crackings  of  whips,  shouts  of  riders,  snortings  of 
horses,  came  from  the  arena,  and  the  muffled  sound 
of  wheels  on  the  soft  sand  went  by  like  a  rushing  of 
wings.  No  races  were  going  on,  but  merely  the  pre- 
paratory exercise  for  the  races  which  were  to  take  place 
a  few  days  later.  In  one  corner  of  the  stable  a  naked 
athlete,  rubbed  over  with  oil  and  covered  with  dust,  a 
girdle  of  leather  round  his  hips,  was  raising  and  lower- 
ing dumb-bells.  Throwing  back  his  shaggy  head,  he 
arched  his  back  till  the  joints  cracked,  and  at  every 
effort  his  face  grew  crimson  and  the  veins  of  his  neck 
swelled. 

Preceded  by  slaves,  a  young  Byzantine  woman  of 
231 


232  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

patrician  rank  approached  the  athlete.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  morning  robe  of  delicate  hues  ;  and  a  veil  thrown 
over  her  head  covered  her  aristocratic  and  slightly- 
faded  features. 

She  was  a  zealous  Christian,  widow  of  a  Roman  sena- 
tor; beloved  of  monks  for  her  generous  donations  to 
monasteries,  and  abounding  charity.  At  j&rst  she  con- 
cealed her  escapades,  but  soon  perceived  that  to  com- 
bine the  love  of  the  church  with  the  love  of  the  circus 
was  quite  the  fashion. 

Everybody  knew  that  Stratonice  detested  the  cox- 
combs of  Constantinople,  curled  and  painted,  nervous 
and  capricious  as  she  was  herself  ;  it  was  her  tempera- 
ment and  fancy  to  mingle  the  most  costly  perfumes  of 
Arabia  with  the  enervating  heat  of  circus  and  stable. 
Hot  tears  of  repentance,  fervent  confessions  to  tactful 
confessors,  were  of  no  avail  ;  and  this  little  woman, 
frail  and  delicate  as  some  ivory  trinket,  cared  for 
nothing  but  the  coarse  caresses  of  a  certain  famous 
circus- rider. 

Stratonice  was  watching  the  exercises  of  the  gymnast 
with  a  practised  eye,  while  he,  preserving  a  stupid  ex- 
pression on  his  beefy  face,  paid  her  not  the  slightest 
attention.  She  muttered  something  to  her  slave,  with 
simple  wonder  admiring  the  powerful  back  and  the  ter- 
rible Herculean  muscles  rolling  under  the  red  skin  of 
the  shoulders,  when,  bending  with  deep  inhalations, 
like  the  wind  of  a  forge,  he  raised  the  iron  weights 
above  his  handsome  tawny  head. 

The  curtain  was  lifted.  The  crowd  of  spectators  re- 
coiled, and  two  Cappadocian  mares,  a  white  and  a  black, 
pushed  into  the  stables,  ridden  by  a  young  horse- 
woman, who,  with  a  guttural  cry,  adroitly  leapt  from 
one  beast  to  another,  and  thence  to  the  ground. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  233 

She  was  solidly-built,  hale  and  sprightly  as  her  mares, 
and  upon  her  bare  body  shone  fine  drops  of  sweat. 

Zephirinus,  the  elegant  sub-deacon  of  the  Basilica  o* 
the  Holy  Apostles,  smilingly  hastened  towards  her. 
A  great  lover  of  the  circus,  a  frequenter  of  races  and 
racing-stables,  this  young  man  would  wager  heavy 
sums  for  the  blue  {veneid)  against  the  green  {prasind). 
With  his  red-heeled  morocco  boots,  his  painted  eyes, 
and  curled  hair,  Zephirinus  had  much  more  the  appear- 
ance of  a  young  girl  than  of  a  servant  of  the  church, 
Behind  him  stood  a  slave,  burdened  with  packets  of 
pretty  stufifs  and  boxes,  purchases  of  every  kind  from 
famous  shops. 

"  Krokala,  here  are  the  perfumes  you  asked  for  the 
day  before  yesterday." 

The  sub-deacon  offered  the  equestrienne  a  flask 
sealed  with  blue  wax. 

"  I  've  been  hunting  in  shops  all  the  morning,  and 
have  only  found  it  in  one.  It  is  pure  nard,  and  arrived 
yesterday  from  Apamea  !  " 

* '  And  what  purchases  are  these  ?  ' '  demanded  Kro- 
kala. 

**  Oh,  the  silks  in  fashion  !  .  .  .  ornaments — sets  o^ 
jewels  !  " 

*'  All  of  them  for  your ?  " 

'*  Yes,  all  for  my  most  noble  sister,  the  devout  ma- 
tron Bezilla;  one  must  help  one's  near  relatives  !  She 
trusts  nobody's  taste  but  mine  for  choosing  stuffs. 
From  early  morning  I  am  under  her  orders.  My  head 
goes  round,  but  I  don't  complain.  No  !  .  .  .  No  ! 
.  .  .     Bezilla  is  so  good  .  .  .  such  a  holy  woman  !  " 

**  Unfortunately  old,"  laughed  Krokala.  "Here, 
boy,  wipe  the  sweat  off  the  black  mare  with  fresh  fig- 
leaves.  ' ' 


234  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  Old  age  also  has  its  virtues,"  replied  the  sub. 
deacon,  gently  rubbing  together  his  white  hands  ;  they 
were  loaded  with  rings. 

Then  he  whispered  in  Krokala's  ear  :  "  This  even^ 
ing?" 

"  I  'm  not  sure  .  .  .  perhaps.  Are  you  going  to 
bring  me  something  ?  " 

"  You  need  n't  be  afraid,  Krokala,  I  won't  come 
empty-handed!  There 's  apiece  of  stuff  .  .  .  a  quite 
marvellous  pattern." 

He  kissed  two  of  his  fingers,  adding  :  *'  Something 
perfectly  dazzling  ! ' ' 

"  Where  did  you  pick  it  up  ?  " 

"  Oh,  at  Pyrmix's  of  course,  near  the  baths.  For 
what  do  you  take  me  ?  You  might  make  a  long 
tarantinidion  out  of  it.  You  can't  imagine  what  em- 
broidery there  is  on  it  !     Guess  the  subject  !  " 

''  I  don't  know  !  .  .  .     Flowers — animals  ?  " 

* '  In  gold  and  silk — the  whole  story  of  Diogenes,  the 
Cynic." 

**  Ah,  that  must  be  pretty  !  "  cried  the  girl.  "  Come, 
by  all  means,  I  shall  expect  you." 

Zephirinus  glanced  at  the  clepsydra,  a  water-clock 
placed  in  a  niche  in  the  wall. 

**  I  am  late — quite  late  !  I  must  go  on  to  a  money- 
lender, a  jeweller,  then  the  patriarch,  and  then  to  the 
church.     Till  then,  good-bye." 

"  Don't  forget,"  Krokala  cried  to  him,  with  a  mis- 
chievous gesture. 

The  sub-deacon  disappeared,  followed  by  his  slave. 

A  crowd  of  grooms,  dancing  girls,  gymnasts,  and 
tamers  of  wild  beasts  invaded  the  stables.  With  his 
face  protected  by  a  mask,  the  gladiator,  Mermillion, 
was  heating  a  bar  of  iron  red-hot ;  he  was  taming  a  lion 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  235 

newly  received  from  Africa,  and  which  could  be  heard 
roaring  through  the  stable-wall. 

"  You  '11  be  the  death  of  me,  granddaughter,  and 
you  '11  go  to  hell  yourself!  Oh,  oh,  how  my  back 
hurts  !     I  'm  done  for  !  " 

"  Is  that  you,  grandfather  Gnyphon  ?  What  do  j^ou 
want  ?  "  asked  Krokala  in  a  vexed  voice. 

Gnyphon  was  a  little  old  man  with  cunning  tearful 
eyes,  which  shone  under  eyebrows  active  as  two  white 
mice.  He  had  the  violet  nose  of  a  drunkard,  wore 
lyibyan  breeches,  patched  and  botched  here  and  there, 
and  on  his  head  a  Phrygian  cap. 

**  You  've  come  again  for  money,"  grumbled  Kro- 
kala, **  and  you  've  been  drinking  again." 

"  It 's  a  sin  to  use  such  language.  You  '11  have  to 
answer  for  my  soul  to  God.  Just  think  what  you  've 
brought  me  to.  I  am  living  now  in  the  Smokatian 
quarter  ;  I  hire  a  little  cellar  from  an  image-carver, 
and  every  day  I  have  to  see  him  making  his  horrible 
idols  in  marble.  There  's  a  nice  occupation  for  a 
Christian  !  I  scarcely  open  my  eyes  in  the  morning, 
when  tap,  tap,  tap, — my  landlord  's  hammering  his 
marble — bringing  white  devils  into  the  world  ;  damna- 
ble gods  that  stand  laughing  at  me.  How  am  I  to 
keep  out  of  the  wine-shop  ?  O  I^ord,  have  mercy  on 
us  !  I  'm  simply  weltering  in  Pagan  horrors,  like  a 
pig  in  a  sty,  and  it  '11  be  reckoned  against  us  .  .  .  and 
who  '11  be  responsible,  I  'd  like  to  know  ?  Why,  you  ! 
You  're  rolling  in  money,  and  yet  you  leave  a  poor 
miserable  old  man ' ' 

"  You  lie,  Gnyphon  !  You  're  not  poor  ;  you  're  a 
miser  ;  you  've  got  a  money-box  under  the  bed!  " 

Gnyphon  made  a  despairing  gesture  :  "  Hush — 
hush!" 


236  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

To  change  the  subject  he  said  :  "Do  you  know 
where  I  'm  going  ?  " 

"  To  the  tavern,  of  course  !  " 

"  Worse  than  that.  To  the  Temple  of  Dionysus  ! 
That  temple,  since  the  days  of  holy  Constantine,  has 
been  buried  under  rubbish  ;  but  to-morrow,  by  the  au- 
gust order  of  the  Emperor  Julian,  it  will  be  all  shining 
again.  And  I  've  hired  myself  out  to  do  the  sweeping, 
although  I  shall  lose  my  soul  and  be  packed  off  to  hell 
for  it.  But  I  've  allowed  myself  to  be  tempted  because 
I  'm  poor  and  hungry.  My  granddaughter  does  n't 
do  anything  to  support  me.  .  .  .  That  's  what  I  've 
come  to  !  " 

''  You  let  me  be,  Gnyphon.  Here  you  are  !  Now 
go  !     And  don't  come  again  when  you  're  drunk  !  " 

Krokala  flung  some  pieces  of  silver  to  her  grand- 
father, and  then,  leaping  on  an  Illyrian  stallion,  stood 
erect  on  his  croup,  touched  him  with  the  whip,  and  set 
ofi"  at  a  gallop  round  the  Hippodrome.  Gnyphon 
clacked  his  tongue,  and  said  with  pride — 

"  To  think  it  was  I  who  brought  her  up  !  " 

The  firm,  bare  body  of  the  horsewoman  shone  in  the 
morning  sun,  and  her  floating  red  hair  matched  the 
colour  of  the  stallion. 

"  Eh,  Zotick,"  cried  Gnyphon  to  an  old  slave  who 
was  raking  horse-dung  into  a  basket,  "  come  with  me 
to  clean  the  temple  of  Dionysus  !  You  're  a  master  in 
these  things  !     I  '11  pay  you  three  obols  for  it." 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  answered  Zotick.  "  Just  a  mo- 
ment to  trim  the  lamp  for  the  goddess,  and  I  'm  at 
your  service." 

The  goddess  was  Atalanta,  patron  of  grooms,  dung- 
hills, and  stables.  Coarsely  carven  in  wood,  and  look- 
ing little  more  than  a  smoky  log,  Atalanta  figured  in  a 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  237 

damp  corner.  But  Zotick,  who  had  been  bred  among 
horses,  used  to  worship  her,  often  praying  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  arraying  her  coarse  blockish  feet  with 
sweet  violets,  in  the  belief  that  she  healed  all  his  ills, 
and  would  preserve  him  in  life  and  in  death. 

Gnyphon  went  out  into  the  open  space,  the  Forum 
of  Constantine,  which  was  circular,  and  adorned  with 
colonnades  and  triumphal  arches.  In  the  midst  a 
gigantic  porphyry  column  rose  from  a  massive  pedestal, 
and  bore  on  its  summit,  at  a  height  of  a  hundred  and 
twenty  cubits,  a  bronze  statue  of  Apollo  by  Phidias, 
which  had  been  carried  off  from  a  Phrygian  city.  The 
head  of  the  Sun-god  had  been  broken,  and,  with  bar- 
baric taste,  the  head  of  the  Christian  Emperor,  the 
apostolic  Constantine,  had  been  fitted  in  its  stead  to 
the  neck  of  the  image. 

His  brow  was  surrounded  by  gilt  rays.  In  his  right 
hand  Apollo  Constantine  held  the  sceptre,  and  in  his 
left  the  globe.  At  the  foot  of  the  colossus  was  lodged 
a  little  Christian  chapel,  a  kind  of  palladium,  in  which 
worship  was  still  offered  in  the  time  of  Constantine. 
The  Christians  defended  the  practice  by  the  argument 
that  in  the  bronze  body  of  Apollo,  within  the  Sun-god's 
very  breast,  a  talisman  was  hidden — a  piece  of  the  Most 
Holy  Cross  brought  from  Jerusalem.  The  Kmperor 
Julian  closed  this  chapel. 

Gnyphon  and  Zotick  proceeded  along  a  narrow  and 
lengthy  street,  which  led  straight  to  the  Chalcedonian 
stairs,  not  far  from  the  fortress.  Many  public  edifices 
were  being  built,  and  others  were  rebuilding,  for  so  hast- 
ily had  they  been  erected  to  please  Constantius  that 
they  already  were  crumbling  away.  Inquisitive  gazers 
were  wandering  in  this  street,  stopping  at  merchants' 
shops  ;  porters  were  passing  by,  slaves  following  their 


238  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

masters.  Overhead,  hammers  resounded  ;  cranes  were 
creaking,  and  saws  grinding  the  white  stone.  I^abour- 
ers  were  heaving  at  the  end  of  ropes  huge  timbers,  and 
blocks  of  marble  glittered  against  the  blue.  A  smell 
of  damp  plaster  came  from  the  new  houses,  and  a  fine 
white  dust  fell  on  the  heads  of  passers-by.  On  this 
side  and  that,  between  the  dazzling  white  walls  steeped 
in  sunlight,  the  smiling  blue  waves  of  the  Propontic, 
trimmed  with  galley-sails  like  the  wings  of  sea-gulls, 
shone  at  the  end  of  narrow  alleys. 

Gnyphon  heard,  as  he  went  by,  a  conversation  be- 
tween two  workmen  who  were  weighing  mortar  into  a 
sack — 

' '  Why  did  you  become  a  Christian  ?  ' '  asked  one  of 
them. 

"  Just  think,  the  Christians  have  six  times  as  many 
feast  days  as  Hellenists  !  Nobody  harms  you.  .  .  . 
I  advise  you  to  follow  my  example.  One  is  much  freer 
among  Christians." 

Where  four  roads  met,  the  pressure  of  a  crowd  pinned 
Gnyphon  and  Zotick  against  the  wall.  In  the  middle 
of  the  street  there  was  a  block  in  the  trafiic  ;  the  chari- 
ots could  neither  advance  nor  draw  back  ;  shouts, 
oaths,  blows  of  the  whip,  were  exchanged.  Forty  oxen 
were  dragging,  on  an  enormous  stone- wheeled  cart,  a 
jasper  column.     The  earth  shook  under  its  weight. 

'*  Whither  are  you  dragging  that  ?  "  asked  Gnyphon. 

"  From  the  Basilica  to  the  Temple  of  Hera.  The 
Christians  had  carried  it  off  for  their  church.  Now  it 
is  going  back  to  its  proper  position." 

Gnyphon  glanced  at  the  dirty  wall  against  which  he 
was  leaning,  on  which  Pagan  urchins  had  drawn  the 
usual  impious  caricatures  of  the  Christians. 

Gnyphon  turned  and  spat  with  indignation. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  239 

On  one  side  of  the  crowded  market-place  they  ob- 
served the  portrait  of  Julian,  arrayed  in  all  the  symbols 
of  Imperial  power.  The  winged  god  Hermes  was  com- 
ing down  from  the  clouds  towards  him.  The  portrait 
was  fresh  and  the  colours  not  yet  dry. 

Now  according  to  the  Roman  law  every  passer-by 
had  to  salute  any  picture  of  Augustus. 

The  Agoranome,  or  inspector  of  the  market,  stopped 
a  little  old  woman  carrying  a  large  basket  of  cabbages. 

''  I  never  salute  the  gods,"  wept  the  old  woman. 
**  My  father  and  mother  were  Christians." 

'*  You  have  n't  got  to  salute  the  god,  but  the  Em- 
peror ! ' ' 

"  But  the  Emperor  is  alongside  of  the  god  !  So  how 
should  I  salute  him  ?  " 

"  No  matter  !  You  were  told  to  salute  and  not  to 
argue  !  " 

Gnyphon  dragged  Zotick  farther  on  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

*'  Devilish  trick,  "  he  grumbled,  "  either  salute  the 
accursed  Hermes,  or  be  accused  of  insulting  the  sov- 
ereign !  No  way  out  !  .  .  .  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  the  day  of 
Antichrist  !  In  one  way  or  another  we  're  always 
sinning  !  When  I  see  you,  Zotick,  envy  gnaws  my 
very  soul.  You  live  with  your  dunghill  goddess,  and 
have  no  cares. ' ' 

They  reached  the  Temple  of  Dionysus,  hard  by  a 
Christian  monastery,  the  windows  and  doors  of  which 
were  fast  barred  as  against  the  approach  of  an  enemy. 
The  Hellenists  accused  the  monks  of  having  pillaged 
the  temple. 

When  Gnyphon  and  Zotick  went  into  the  temple, 
carpenters  and  timberers  were  already  at  work.  The 
planks  which  had  been  used  to  close  the  quadrilateral 


240  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

to  the  sky  were  dragged  down,  and  the  sun  poured  into 
the  gloomy  building. 

"  Just  look  at  the  cobwebs,  look,  look  !  "  Between 
the  capitals  of  the  columns  hung  masses  of  grey  webs, 
which  were  being  hastily  cleaned  away  by  means  of 
rag-mops  on  immense  poles.  A  bat,  disturbed  in  his 
lair,  flew  away  from  a  dark  crevice,  rushing  hither  and 
thither  to  hide  himself  from  the  light,  striking  himself 
against  all  the  corners.  The  rustling  of  his  soft  wings 
could  be  distinctly  heard.  Zotick  began  sorting  the 
rubbish  and  throwing  it  into  baskets  while  the  old  man 
mumbled,  "Ah,  these  cursed  fellows  !  what  foulness 
they  have  heaped  up  !  " 

A  great  bunch  of  rusty  keys  was  brought  up  and  the 
treasure-room  opened.  The  monks  had  carried  off 
everything  of  value.  Precious  stones  encrusted  on  the 
sacrificial  cups  were  gone,  the  gold  and  purple  adorn- 
ments on  the  vestments  had  been  torn  off.  When  the 
splendid  sacrificial  robe  was  displayed  a  brown  cloud  of 
moths  escaped  from  its  folds.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
hollow  of  a  tripod,  Gnyphon  saw  a  handful  of  ashes, 
the  remains  of  myrrh  burned  before  the  triumph  of  the 
Christians  by  the  last  priest  during  the  last  sacrifice. 

From  this  heap  of  sacred  rubbish,  poor  rags,  and 
broken  goblets,  rose  a  perfume  of  death  and  mildew, 
a  sad  and  tender  odour,  as  of  incense  to  gods  profaned. 

A  gentle  melancholy  came  over  Gnyphon 's  heart. 
He  smiled,  remembering  something  perhaps  of  his 
childhood  ;  sweet  cakes  of  barlej^  and  thyme,  field 
daisies  and  jessamine  which  he  used  to  carry  with  his 
mother  to  the  altar  of  the  village  goddess  ;  his  childish 
prayers,  not  to  the  distant  God,  but  to  the  little  gods 
polished  by  the  frequent  touch  of  hands,  carven  in 
beechwood — the  holy  Penates.    He  pitied  the  vanished 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  241 

gods,  and  sighed  sadly,  but  suddenly  returned  to  him- 
self and  muttered — 

**  Suggestions  of  the  Devil  !  " 

The  workmen  were  carrying  up  a  heavy  slab  of  mar- 
ble, an  antique  bas-relief,  stolen  many  years  before  and 
discovered  in  the  hovel  of  a  cobbler  whose  kitchen  oven 
it  had  served  to  repair.  Philomena,  the  old  wife  of 
a  neighbouring  clothier,  a  devout  Christian,  hated  the 
cobbler's  wife,  who  used  to  let  her  ass  stray  into  Phil- 
omena's  cabbage-yard.  War  had  been  maintained  be- 
tween them  for  years,  but  the  Christian  woman  was  in 
the  end  triumphant ;  for  acting  on  her  information  the 
workmen  had  penetrated  into  the  cobbler's  house,  and 
in  order  to  carry  off  the  bas-relief  and  slab  had  been 
obliged  to  demolish  the  oven. 

This  was  a  terrible  blow  to  the  cobbler's  wife. 
Brandishing  her  shovel,  she  called  down  vengeance 
from  all  the  gods  on  the  impious  ;  pulled  her  hair  out 
in  handfuls,  groaning  over  her  scattered  pots  and  pans 
while  her  children  squealed  round  her  like  the  young 
birds  of  a  devastated  nest.  But  the  bas-relief  was 
carried  off^,  despite  her  struggles,  and  Philomena  set 
about  the  work  of  cleansing  it.  The  draper's  wife  zeal- 
ously scrubbed  the  marble  which  had  been  blackened 
by  smoke  and  made  greasy  with  spilt  broth.  I,ittle  by 
little  the  severe  lines  of  the  divine  sculpture  became 
visible.  The  young  Dionysus,  naked  and  proud,  lay 
half-reclined,  as  if  fatigued  by  Bacchic  feasting,  letting 
his  hand,  which  held  a  cup,  fall  idly.  A  leopardess 
was  licking  up  the  last  drops  from  the  goblet,  and  the 
god,  giver  of  joy  to  all  living  things,  was  gazing  with 
a  benign  smile  at  the  strength  of  the  beast  subdued  by 
the  grape.     The  bas-relief  was  hauled  into  position. 

The  jeweller,   clambering  up  before    the    image    of 
16 


242  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Dionysus,  inlaid  the  orbits  of  the  god  with  two  splen- 
did sapphires,  to  serve  as  eyes. 

''  What  's  he  doing  there  ?  "  asked  Gnyphon. 

"  Can't  you  see  ?    They  are  ej^es." 

*'  Yes,  certainly,  but  where  do  the  stones  come 
from?" 

**  From  the  monastery." 

'*  But  why  have  the  monks  allowed  it  ?  " 

"  How  could  they  prevent  it  ?  The  divine  Augustus 
Julian  himself  ordered  it.  The  god's  blue  eyes  were 
used  as  an  ornament  on  the  robe  of  the  Crucified  that 's 
all.  .  .  .  They  talk  about  charity  and  justice,  and 
they  themselves  are  the  worst  of  brigands  !  See  how 
beautifully  the  stones  fit  into  their  old  setting  !  .  .  .  " 

The  god  fixed  his  sapphire  eyes  on  Gnyphon.  The 
old  man  recoiled  and  crossed  himself,  seized  with  dread. 

*'  Ivord  have  mercy  on  us  !     It  's  horrible  !  " 

Remorse  filled  his  soul,  and  while  sweeping  he  be- 
gan, as  was  his  wont,  to  talk  to  himself— 

**  Gnyphon  !  Gnyphon  !  what  a  poor  creature  you 
are  !  .  .  .  Just  like  a  mangy  dog  one  might  say.  .  .  . 
You  're  ending  your  days  in  a  nice  way  !  Why  have 
you  gone  and  damned  yourself?  The  fiend  has  over- 
tempted  you  !  .  .  .  And  now  you  go  into  everlasting 
fire  without  a  chance  of  salvation.  You  've  smirched 
soul  and  body,  Gnyphon,  by  serving  the  abomination 
of  the  heathen !  .  .  .  Better  had  it  been  for  thee  hadst 
thou  never  been  born  !  ' ' 

*'  What  are  you  groaning  at,  old  man  ?  "  Philomena 
the  draper's  wife  enquired. 

"  My  heart  is  heavy  !  .  .  .     Oh,  how  heavy  !  " 

"  Are  you  a  Christian  ?  " 

•'  Christian  ?— I  am  a  betrayer  of  Christ  !  "  answered 
Gnyphon,  using  his  broom  vigorously. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  243 

*'  Would  you  like  me  to  take  away  your  sin  so  that 
not  a  trace  of  heathen  defilement  shall  stick  to  you  ? 
You  see  I  'ma  Christian  too,  and  yet  afraid  of  nothing. 
Do  you  think  I  'd  have  undertaken  work  like  this,  if  I 
had  n't  known  how  to  purify  myself  after  it  ?  " 

Gnyphon  stared  at  her,  incredulous. 

But  the  draper's  wife,  having  ascertained  that  no- 
body could  hear  them,  muttered  mysteriously — 

"  Yes  !  .  .  .  there  is  a  means  !  I  must  tell  you 
about  it  !  A  pilgrim  made  me  a  present  of  a  little  bit 
of  Egyptian  wood,  called  persis,  which  grows  at  Her- 
mopolis,  in  the  Thebaid.  When  Jesus  and  His  mother 
on  their  ass  were  going  through  the  gates  of  the  town, 
the  persis  tree  bowed  down  before  them  to  the  earth ; 
and  ever  since  it  has  been  a  miraculous  healer.  I  've 
got  a  little  splinter  of  it,  and  I  '11  break  off  a  bit  for 
you.  There  's  such  a  power  in  that  wood,  that  if  you 
put  a  bit  into  a  vat  of  water  and  leave  it  there  for  a 
night  the  water  becomes  holy.  You  '11  just  wash 
yourself  from  head  to  foot  in  it,  and  the  heathen 
abomination  will  leave  you  like  magic,  and  you  '11  feel 
yourself  light  and  pure.  Is  n't  it  written  in  the  Bible, 
'  Thou  shalt  dip  in  the  water  and  shalt  become  as 
white  as  snow  '  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  my  benefactress  !  "  groaned  Gnyphon,  "  save 
me  !     Give  me  a  chip  of  that  wonderful  wood  ! ' ' 

' '  Ah  !  you  may  well  call  it  precious  !  .  .  .  Just  to 
do  a  good  turn  to  a  neighbour  I  '11  give  it  you  for  a 
drachma."  * 

''  What  's  that  you  're  saying,  mother?  Why,  I 
never  earned  a  drachma  in  my  life  !  Will  you  take 
three  obols  ?  "  ^ 

**  Miser  ! "  cried  the  draper's  wife  indignantly. 
'  Worth  about  8d.  ^  Six  to  the  drachma. 


244  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

**  You  stick  at  a  drachma  !  .  .  .  Is  n't  your  immortal 
soul  worth  so  much  ?  ' ' 

**  But  after  all  do  you  think  I  shall  be  quite  pure  ?  " 
objected  Gnyphon.  "  Perhaps  the  sin  has  so  soaked 
into  me  that  nothing  can  ..." 

**  I  '11  solemnly  swear  to  it,"  insisted  the  draper's 
wife.  *'  Try  it  and  j^ou  '11  feel  the  miracle  at  once  ! 
.  .  .  Your  soul  will  shine  like  the  sun — as  pure  as  £ 
white  dove.  .  .  »" 


n 


AT  Constantinople  Julian  organised  Bacchic  pro- 
cessions. Seated  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  white 
mules,  he  held  in  his  right  hand  a  golden  thyrsus,  sur- 
mounted by  cedar-fruit,  and  in  the  other  a  cup  gar- 
landed with  ivy.  The  rays  of  the  sun  flooded  the 
crystal  wine-cup  with  vermilion.  On  each  side  of  the 
chariot  paced  tame  leopards,  sent  from  the  island  of 
Serendib.  In  front,  Bacchantes  sang  to  the  beat  of 
timbrels,  waving  bright  torches  ;  and  through  the 
clouds  of  smoke  lads,  wearing  the  horns  of  Fauns, 
spilt  wine  into  goblets.  As  they  pushed  laughing 
along,  the  red  wine  often  splashed  the  bare  shoulder  of 
some  Bacchante,  and  dashed  the  sunshine  with  rosy 
spray.  An  obese  old  man,  a  certain  rascally  money- 
lender—who, by  the  way,  was  head  of  the  Imperial 
Treasury,  —mounted  on  an  ass,  played  the  part  of  Si- 
lenus  to  perfection.  The  Bacchantes  danced  along, 
waving  their  hands  towards  the  Emperor — 

O  Bacchus,  ever  girt  with  gleaming  cloud  ! 

Thousands  of  voices  intoned  the  chant  from  the  An- 
tigone of  Sophocles — 

But  now  be  glad  of  Victory ! 

She  meets  our  gladness  with  an  answering  smile  ; 

And  Thebes,  the  many-charioted,  hears  far-resounding  praise. 

Now  then  have  done  with  wars, — forget  your  strifes  ! 

Visit  all  temples  of  the  gods  with  night-long  dance  and  song  ; 

And  thou,  O  Theban  Bacchus,  lead  our  mirth ! 

Lead  thou,  and  shake  the  earth  ! 

245 


246  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Suddenly  Julian  heard  a  burst  of  laughter,  the  shrill 
scream  of  a  woman,  and  the  quavering  voice  of  an  old 
man — 

"  Ah,  my  pretty  chicken  ? " 

It  was  the  Bacchic  priest,  a  good-humoured  septua- 
genarian,  who  had  pinched  the  bare  elbow  of  a  comely 
Bacchante.  Julian's  face  darkened,  and  he  summoned 
the  old  dotard,  who  ran  up,  still  dancing — 

**  My  friend,"  whispered  Julian  in  his  ear,  "  observe 
the  dignity  which  befits  your  age  and  rank  !  " 

*'  I  am  a  simple  and  unlearned  man.  And  I  may 
venture  to  tell  your  Majesty  that  while  philosophy  is 
beyond  me,  I  venerate  the  gods.  Ask  anyone  you 
please  on  that  head — I  have  always  been  faithful  to 
them.  Only  .  .  .  when  I  see  a  pretty  girl  .  .  .  my 
blood  gets  up  !  I  am  an  old  satyr  ..."  Seeing  the 
displeased  face  of  the  Emperor  he  stopped,  assumed  a 
more  solemn  air,  and  relapsed  into  still  denser  stupidity. 

"  Who  is  that  young  girl  ?  "  asked  Julian. 

"  She  who  is  carrying  the  sacred  vessels  on  her 
head?" 

''  Yes." 

"  A  courtesan  of  Chalcedon.  ..." 

**  What!  .  .  .  You  have  authorised  a  courtesan  to 
touch  the  holy  vessels  of  the  gods  with  her  foul  hands ! ' ' 

'*  But,  divine  Augustus,  you  yourself  ordained  this 
procession.  Who  was  there  to  choose  from  ?  All  the 
noble  women  are  Galileans.  And  then  .  .  .  none  of 
them  would  have  consented  to  have  exhibited  them- 
selves half-naked  ..." 

**  Then  they  are  all  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no  !  Some  of  them  are  dancing-girls,  tragic 
actresses,  horsewomen  from  the  Hippodrome.  See  how 
gay  they  are  and  free  from  false  shame  !     Believe  me, 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  247 

the  people  like  that  !  That  's  what  they  want.  And 
there  's  a  patrician  woman  !  .  .  ." 

The  last-named  was  a  Christian,  an  old  maid  looking 
out  for  husbands.  On  her  head  rose  a  helmet-shaped 
wig,  a  galerum  made  of  blond  hair  powdered  with  gold 
— thickly  covered  with  gems  as  an  Indian  idol  ;  im- 
pudently painted,  she  drew  her  tiger-skin  across  her 
withered  bosom,  and  smiled  affectedly. 

Julian  looked  down  on  the  people  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse of  distaste. 

Rope-dancers,  drunken  legionaries,  venal  women, 
circus- riders,  gymnasts,  actors,  swarmed  and  wantoned 
all  round  him. 

The  procession  arrived  at  a  place  where  four  streets 
met.  One  of  the  Bacchantes  ran  to  a  tavern,  whence 
came  an  unpleasant  smell  of  rancid  frying  fish,  and 
bought  some  greasy  cakes  for  three  obols.  These  she 
ate,  greedily  licking  her  lips  ;  and  finished  by  wip- 
ing her  hands  on  the  purple  silk  of  her  robes,  which 
had  been  granted  for  the  procession  by  the  Imperial 
Treasury. 

The  chorus  of  Sophocles  soon  became  wearisome. 
Husky  voices  took  up  a  street-song.  The  whole  pro- 
ceeding appeared  to  Julian  to  have  been  desecrated. 
A  drunken  man  was  picked  up  ;  and  some  thieves, 
playing  the  part  of  Fauns,  were  arrested.  They  de- 
fended themselves,  and  a  fight  ensued.  The  only  per- 
sonages in  the  whole  company  whose  demeanour 
remained  dignified  and  beautiful  were  the  panthers. 

At  last  they  drew  near  the  temple.  Julian  came 
down  from  his  chariot. 

**  Can  I  really  present  myself  before  the  altar  of 
Dionysus  surrounded  by  this  human  refuse  ?  " 

A  chill  of  disgust  ran  through  his  body.     He  saw  the 


24^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

brutal  faces  wasted  with  debauchery,  corpse -like 
through  their  paint  ;  the  painful  nudity  of  bodies  de- 
formed by  fasting  and  anaemia.  He  breathed  the 
atmosphere  of  low  wine-shops,  houses  of  ill-fame.  The 
breath  of  the  crowd,  tainted  with  rotten  fish  and  sour 
wine,  smote  him  through  the  aromatic  smoke.  Scrolls 
of  papyrus  were  stretched  out  to  him  from  every  side  : 

' '  I  was  promised  a  place  in  your  stables  ...  I  have 
been  paid  nothing  for  renouncing  Christ  ..." 

'*  Don't  desert  us.  Divine  Augustus  !  Protect  us  ! 
We  denied  for  your  sake  the  faith  of  our  fathers !  .  .  . 
If  you  give  us  up  what  will  become  of  us  ?  " 

These  were  the  voices  drowned  by  the  chorus  of  the 
feast. 

Julian  went  into  the  temple,  and  contemplated  the 
marvellous  statue  of  Dionysus.  His  eyes,  weary  witlji 
human  deformity,  reposed  on  the  pure  lines  of  that 
iivine  body.  He  became  oblivious  of  the  crowd  as  if 
fie  were  alone — the  only  man  amidst  a  herd  of  animals. 

The  Emperor  proceeded  to  the  sacrifice.  The  people 
watched  with  amazement  the  Roman  Csesar,  as  Pontifex 
Maxim  us,  in  his  zeal  for  religion  doing  the  work  of  a 
^lave — splitting  wood,  bringing  twigs,  drawing  water, 
and  cleansing  the  altar. 

A  rope-dancer  said  to  his  neighbour — 

*'  Look  how  he  keeps  at  it  !  He  really  loves  his 
;^ds!" 

**  By  this  right  hand,"  remarked  the  other,  **  few 
people  care  for  father  and  mother  as  he  cares  for  his 
gods!" 

'*  You  see,"  laughed  a  third,  **  how  he  puffs  out  his 
cheeks  to  kindle  the  fire  again  !  .  .  .  Blow,  blow  ! 
,  .  .  It  won't  catch  !  .  .  .  Your  uncle  Constantine 
put  ^^a^  fire  out  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  249 

The  flames  jetted  up,  illumining  the  Emperor's  face. 

Dipping  the  holy  water  brush  into  a  shallow  cup,  a 
silver  patine  used  to  cover  the  chalice,  he  besprinkled 
the  sacrificial  water  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd.  Some 
grimaced,  others  started,  at  feeling  the  cold  drops  on 
their  faces. 

When  all  the  ceremonies  were  over,  Julian  remem^ 
bered  that  he  had  prepared  a  philosophical  discourse 
for  the  people. 

**  Men,"  said  he,  "the  god  Dionysus  is  the  begin> 
ning  of  your  souls'  liberty.  Dionysus  breaks  every 
chain  that  binds  you  ;  he  mocks  the  strong,  sets  free 
the  slave.  ..." 

But  he  perceived  such  a  dull  stupidity  upon  every 
face,  such  an  expression  of  tedium  and  weariness,  that 
the  words  died  on  his  lips.  A  mortal  disgust  for 
humanity  arose  in  his  heart.  He  made  a  sign  to  the 
lance-bearers  to  come  round  him. 

Grumbling  and  disappointed,  the  crowd  dispersed. 

*'  I  'm  going  straight  to  church  to  get  absolution. 
Do  you  think  I  shall  be  forgiven  ?  ' '  said  one  of  the 
Fauns,  snatching  off  his  own  false  beard  and  horns 
with  an  angry  gesture. 

**  It  was  n't  worth  losing  one's  soul  for  that,  eh  ?  " 
observed  with  wrath  a  lady  of  doubtful  reputation. 

"  Nobody  wants  your  soul,  or  would  give  three 
obolsfor  it  !  " 

*'  The  cursed  devils  !  "  yelled  a  drunkard.  **  They 
did  n't  give  us  enough  wine  to  get  the  taste  of  it  !  " 

In  the  sacristy  of  the  temple  the  Kmperor  washed 
face  and  hands,  took  off  the  splendid  Dionysian  dress, 
and  put  on  again  the  simple  white  tunic  of  the  Pytha- 
goreans. The  sun  was  declining,  and  he  waited  the  fall 
of  dusk  to  retrace  his  way  to  the  palace  unperceived. 


250  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Julian  went  into  the  sacred  wood  of  Dionysus,  where 
the  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  humming  of  bees 
and  the  tinkle  of  a  brook.  A  sound  of  steps  made  him 
turn  round.  It  was  his  old  friend,  one  of  Maximus' 
favourite  pupils,  the  young  Alexandrian  doctor,  Ori- 
bazius. 

They  walked  on  the  narrow  path  side  by  side.  The 
sun  was  shining  through  large  golden  leaves  of  the 
vine. 

"  Look!  "  said  Julian  smiling.  *'  Here  great  Pan  is 
still  alive!" 

Then  in  a  lower  tone  he  added,  hanging  his  head — 

*'  Oribazius  !  .  .  .     You  saw  it?  " 

'*  Yes,"  responded  the  student.  *'  But  perhaps  the 
fault  lay  with  you,  Julian.  .  .  .  What  did  you  hope 
for?" 

The  Emperor  made  no  answer. 

They  came  near  a  little  ruined  temple  that  ivy  had 
invaded  and  overrun.  Fragments  lay  about  in  the 
deep  grass.  A  single  column  only  remained  standing  ; 
and  on  its  lovely  capital,  clear-cut  as  the  petals  of  a 
lily,  shone  the  last  raj^s  of  sunset. 

The  friends  sat  down  on  the  flags  together  and  in- 
haled the  air,  sweet  with  mint  and  thyme  and  worm- 
wood. Julian  put  the  leaves  aside  and  pointing  to  an 
antique  broken  bas-relief — 

''  Oribazius  !    That  is  what  I  hoped  for  !  " 

The  bas-relief  represented  a  religious  procession  of 
the  ancient  Athenians. 

*'  That  is  what  I  desired  .  .  .  beauty  like  theirs  ! 
Why  from  day  to  day  do  men  become  more  and  more 
deformed  and  misfeatured  ?  Where  are  the  immortal 
old  men,  the  austere  heroes,  the  proud  lads,  the  pure 
women  in  their  white  and  floating  robes  ?    Where  is 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  251 

that  strength,  that  gaiety  of  heart  ?  Galileans  !  Gali- 
leans! what  have  you  done  with  these  things  ?  " 

He  gazed  at  the  bas-relief  with  eyes  full  of  infinite 
sadness  and  infinite  love. 

"  Julian,"  asked  Oribazius,  gently,  "  do  you  believe 
in  Maximus?  " 

"Yes." 

''Wholly?" 

**  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  've  always  thought,  Julian,  that  you  suffer  from 
the  same  malady  as  your  enemies,  the  Christians  ! ' ' 

''What  malady?" 

"  Faith  in  miracles." 

Julian  shook  his  head. 

"  If  there  be  neither  miracles  nor  gods  my  whole 
life  is  a  madness  !  .  .  .  No,  we  won't  speak  of  that. 
And  do  not  be  too  hard  upon  me  on  account  of  my 
love  for  ancient  ceremonies.  I  scarcely  can  explain  it 
to  you.  The  old  simple  things  stir  tears  in  me;  and  I 
love  the  evening  more  than  the  morning,  autumn  better 
than  spring.  I  love  all  that  is  fleeting  !  .  .  .  even 
the  perfume  of  flowers  that  have  faded.  .  .  .  What 
would  you  have,  my  friend  ?  The  gods  shaped  me  so ! 
.  .  .  That  pleasant  melancholy,  that  golden  faery 
twilight,  are  necessary  to  me.  In  the  depth  of  an- 
tiquity there  is  to  me  something  ineffably  gracious  and 
fair  such  as  I  find  in  no  other  region  —  the  shining  of 
sunset  on  marble  mellowed  by  time.  Do  not  rob  me 
of  the  mad  love  of  what  is  no  more.  Everything  that 
has  been,  is  fairer  than  the  thing  that  is  !  Remem- 
brance has  more  power  over  my  soul  than  hope.  ..." 

Julian  was  silent,  and  with  a  smile  on  his  lips  looked 
into  the  distance,  his  head  leaning  back  against  the 
column. 


252  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

' '  You  speak  as  a  poet, ' '  answered  Oribazius.  ' '  But 
the  dreams  of  a  poet  are  perilous  when  the  fate  of  a 
world  is  in  his  hands.  Ought  not  he  who  reigns  over 
men  to  be  something  more  than  a  poet  ?  ' ' 

''Whose  life  is  higher?" 

"  That  of  the  creator  of  a  «^z£/ life  ?  ..." 

"  New  !  new  !  "  exclaimed  Julian.  "To  be  plain 
with  you,  your  novelty  sometimes  strikes  terror  into 
me  !  It  seems  to  me  to  be  cold  and  hard  as  death.  I 
tell  you,  my  heart  is  in  antiquity.  The  Galileans, 
like  you,  are  always  seeking  novelty  and  stamping  the 
old  idols  under  foot!  .  .  .  Trust  me,  new  life  lies  only 
in  what  is  old  ;  immortal  is  it  and  proud,  however  it  be 
thus  insulted  ! ' ' 

He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  pale  and 
haughty,  his  eyes  brilliant — 

''  They  think  that  Hellas  is  dead  !  .  .  .  And  from 
every  quarter  of  the  compass  black  monks  come  swoop- 
ing down,  like  ravens,  on  its  marble  body,  and  pick  at 
it,  joyously  shrieking,  '  Hellas  is  dead  !  '  But  they 
forget  that  Hellas  cannot  die,  that  Hellas  is  in  our 
hearts  !  Hellas  is  the  divine  beauty  of  man  upon 
earth.  She  but  slumbers,  and  when  she  shall  awake, 
woe  to  the  crows  of  Galilee  !  * ' 

"Julian,"  murmured  Oribazius,  "I  fear  for  you. 
.  .  .  You  wish  to  accomplish  the  impossible.  .  .  . 
Crows  do  not  feed  on  the  living,  and  the  dead  do  not 
rise  again.  .  .  .  Ah,  Caesar !  what  if  the  miracle  does 
not  succeed  ?  ' ' 

* '  I  have  no  fear.  My  defeat  shall  be  my  victory  ! ' ' 
exclaimed  the  Kmperor,  with  so  radiant  a  happiness  on 
his  young  face  that  Oribazius  was  thrilled,  as  if  the 
miracle  was  now  to  be  achieved.  "  Glory  to  the  re- 
jected !     Glory  to  the  conquered  !     But  before  my 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  253 

destruction,"  he  added  with  a  proud  smile,  '*  we  will 
fight  a  good  fight  !  .  .  .  I  would  that  my  enemies 
were  worthy  of  my  hate,  and  not  of  my  contempt  !  .  .  . 
In  truth  I  love  my  enemies.  They  teach  me  to  feel 
and  measure  my  own  force  !  They  bring  into  my  heart 
the  gaiety  of  Dionysus.  Or  it  shall  be  the  old  Titan, 
snapping  his  chains,  and  kindling  anew  the  Promethean 
fire  !  Titan  against  Galilean  !  .  .  .  Rejoice,  tribes 
and  peoples  of  the  earth  !  I  am  the  messenger  of  life 
who  shall  set  you  free  !     I  am  the  Anti- Christ  !  " 


Ill 


IN  the  neighbouring  monastery,  behind  windows  and 
doors  closely  sealed,  solemn  prayers  of  the  religious 
were  resounding  above  the  distant  noise  of  Bacchic 
chants.  To  drown  them  the  monks  joined  their  voices 
in  shrill  lamentation — 

"  Why,  Lord,  hast  Thou  abandoned  us  9  Why  has 
Thy  anger  fallen  upon  Thy  sheep  f 

"  Why  hast  Thou  given  us  up  in  dishojiour  to  the 
hand  of  the  heathen  ? 

'*  Why  hast  Thou  let  mankind  do  outrage  unto 
Theef' 

The  ancient  words  of  the  prophet  Daniel  took  on  an 
unwonted  meaning — 

'  *  The  Lord  has  delivered  us  to  the  evil  king,  the  cun- 
ning est  in  all  the  earth  !  ..." 

Late  in  the  night,  when  the  sun  had  sunk  upon  the 
streets,  the  monks  went  back  to  their  cells. 

Brother  Parphenas  could  not  even  think  of  sleeping. 
His  face  was  pale  and  gentle,  and  in  his  great  eye?, 
clear  as  a  maiden's,  perplexity  was  visible  when  he 
spoke  about  worldly  matters. 

He  spoke  rarely,  indistinctly,  and  in  a  fashion  so 
quaint,  on  topics  so  childish,  that  it  was  diflScult  to 
hear  him  without  smiling.  Sometimes  he  laughed 
without  cause ;  and  austere  monks  would  say  to  him — 

**  What  are  you  cackling  at?  Is  it  to  please  the 
Devil?" 

Then  he  would  timidly  explain  that  he  was  laughing 

254 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  255 

at  his  own  thoughts,  and  thus  convince  every  body- 
that  Parphenas  was  mad. 

One  great  art  he  possessed — that  of  illuminating 
manuscripts  ;  and  this  art  of  Brother  Parphenas 
brought  to  the  monastery  not  only  money,  but  renown 
in  the  most  distant  provinces.  Of  this  he  had  no  sus- 
picion, and  if  he  had  been  able  to  understand  what 
reputation  means,  would  rather  have  been  dismaj^ed 
than  delighted. 

His  artistic  occupations,  which  cost  him  vast  pains 
(Brother  Parphenas  pushed  perfection  of  detail  to  an 
exquisite  finish),  were  not  in  his  eyes  a  labour,  but  an 
amusement.  He  never  said,  "  I  'm  going  to  work." 
But  he  always  asked  of  the  old  Father  Superior  Pam- 
philus,  who  loved  him  tenderly,  **  Father,  give  me 
your  blessing,  I  am  going  to  play." 

And  when  he  had  mastered  some  difficult  combina- 
tion of  ornament,  he  would  clap  his  hands  in  self- 
congratulation.  Brother  Parphenas  so  enjoyed  the 
solitude  and  calm  of  night  that  he  had  learned  to  work 
by  lamp-light.  He  used  to  say  that  the  colours  took 
on  unexpected  shades,  and  that  the  5^ellow  light  did 
no  harm  to  drawings  in  the  realm  of  pure  fancy. 

In  his  narrow  cell  Parphenas  lighted  the  earthen 
lamp  and  placed  it  on  a  plank,  among  his  little  flasks, 
fine  brushes,  and  colour-boxes  of  vermilion,  silver,  and 
liquid  gold.  He  crossed  himself  cautiously,  dipped  his 
brush,  and  began  to  paint  the  outspread  tails  of  two 
peacocks  above  a  frontispiece.  The  golden  peacocks, 
on  a  green  field,  were  drinking  at  a  streamlet  of  tur- 
quoise, with  raised  beaks  and  outstretched  necks. 
Other  rolls  of  parchment  lay  by  him,  unfinished.  His 
world  was  a  supernatural  and  charming  world.  Bord- 
ering   the    text  of  the  page  ran  an  embroidery  of 


256  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

fabulous  creations ;  a  faery  architecture  of  fantastic 
trees  and  animals.  Parphenas  thought  of  nothing 
while  he  created  these  things,  but  a  happy  serenitj' 
transformed  his  face.  Hellas,  Assyria,  Persia,  the 
Indies,  Byzantium  idealised,  and  the  troubled  vision 
of  future  worlds,  of  all  peoples,  and  of  all  ages  ;  these 
mingled  in  the  paradise  of  the  monk,  and  shone,  with 
a  glitter  as  of  jewels,  round  the  initial  letters  of  the 
holy  books. 

This  one  represented  the  Baptism.  St.  John  wa? 
pouring  water  on  the  head  of  Christ,  and  at  his  elboW 
the  Pagan  god  of  rivers  was  amiably  tilting  a  water- 
jar,  while  the  former  proprietor  of  the  bank  (that  is  to 
say,  the  Devil)  held  a  towel  in  readiness  to  offer  the 
Saviour  after  the  ceremony. 

Brother  Parphenas  in  his  innocence  had  no  fear  of 
the  old  gods.  They  used  to  amuse  him.  He  regarded 
them  as  long  ago  converted  to  Christianity.  He  never 
failed  to  place  the  god  of  mountains,  in  the  shape  of  a 
naked  youth,  on  the  summit  of  every  hill.  When  he 
was  drawing  the  passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  a  woman 
holding  an  oar  symbolised  the  Sea,  and  a  naked  man, 
inscribed  Bodos,  stood  for  the  Abyss  engulfing  Pharaoh, 
while  on  the  bank  sat  a  melancholy  woman,  in  a  tan- 
coloured  tunic,  denoting  the  Desert. 

Here,  there,  and  everywhere,  in  the  curve  of  a  horse's 
neck,  the  fold  of  a  robe,  the  simple  pose  of  a  god  lying 
on  his  elbow,  were  evidences  of  antique  grace  and 
simplicity. 

But  on  this  night  his  *'  play  "  interested  the  artist 
no  more.  His  tireless  fingers  were  shaky,  and  the 
smile  had  left  his  lips. 

Listening  awhile,  he  opened  a  cedar-wood  box,  took 
out  an  awl  used  in  the  binding  of  books,  crossed  him- 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  257 

self,  and  shielding  the  ruddy  flame  of  the  lamp  with 
his  hand,  noiselessly  issued  from  his  cell.  It  was  hot 
in  the  silent  corridor.  No  sound  was  heard  but  the 
buzzing  of  a  fly  taken  in  a  spider's  web. 

Parphenas  went  down  to  the  church,  which  was 
lighted  by  a  single  lamp,  placed  before  the  old  ivory- 
carved  diptych.  Two  large  sapphires  in  the  aureole  of 
Jesus,  who  was  sitting  on  the  Virgin's  arm,  had  been 
carried  off"  by  the  Pagans,  and  transferred  to  their 
original  setting  in  the  Temple  of  Dionysus.  These 
black  hollows  in  the  yellow  ivory  were  to  Parphenas 
wounds  in  some  living  body. 

"  No,  I  cannot  bear  it,"  he  murmured,  kissing  the 
hand  of  the  Infant  Jesus.  "  I  cannot  bear  it;  't  would 
be  better  to  die  !" 

These  sacrilegious  marks  in  the  ivory  tortured  and 
angered  him  more  than  outrage  on  a  human  being. 

In  a  comer  of  the  church  he  discovered  a  rope- 
ladder,  used  in  lighting  chapel-lamps.  Carrying  this 
ladder  he  went  forth  into  a  narrow  passage  leading  to 
the  outer  gate,  in  front  of  which  the  fat  brother-cellarer, 
Chorys,  was  snoring  on  the  straw.  Parphenas  glided 
past  like  a  shadow.  The  lock  of  the  door  made  a 
grinding  noise.  Chorys  sat  unblinking,  and  then 
rolled  round  on  the  straw. 

Parphenas  leapt  over  a  low  wall  and  found  himself 
in  the  deserted  street,  into  which  the  full  moon  was 
shining.  There  was  a  low  roar  of  the  sea.  The  young 
monk  went  along  the  Temple  of  Dionysus  up  to  a  point 
in  which  the  wall  was  plunged  in  shadow.  Thence  he 
threw  up  the  rope-ladder,  so  that  it  hooked  itself  to  the 
metal  pinnacle  which  decorated  the  corner.  The  ladder 
5wung  from  the  claw  of  a  sphinx.  The  monk  clam- 
bered by  it  to  the  roof. 

*7 


258  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Far  off,  cocks  crew  ;  a  dog  barked  ;  and  then  again 
came  silence,  measured  only  by  the  slow  sighings  of 
the  sea. 

Parphenas  threw  the  ladder  down  the  inner  wall  of 
the  temple,  and  descended. 

The  eyes  of  the  god,  two  lengthy  sapphires,  shone 
with  intense  vividness  in  the  moonlight,  gazing  down 
on  the  monk.  Parphenas,  thrilled  by  the  silence, 
trembled  and  crossed  himself.  He  clambered  on  to  the 
altar  where  Julian  had  offered  the  sacrifice,  and  his 
heels  felt  the  warmth  of  the  half-extinguished  embers. 

The  monk  drew  the  awl  from  his  pocket.  The  god's 
eyes  sparkled  close  to  his  face,  and  the  artist  felt  the 
careless  smile  of  Dionysus,  and  the  lovely  pose  of  the 
body.  Even  while  digging  out  the  sapphires,  his  ad- 
miring hand  involuntarily  spared  the  body  of  the 
marble  tempter. 

Finally  the  deed  was  done.  The  blinded  Dionysus 
stared  horribly  on  the  monk  from  his  hollow  orbits. 
Terror  fairly  seized  Parphenas.  It  seemed  that  he  was 
watched.  He  leapt  down  from  the  altar,  ran  to  the 
rope-ladder,  climbed,  threw  it  down  the  other  side  of 
the  wall,  without  taking  time  to  fix  it  properly.  This 
cost  him  a  fall  during  the  latter  part  of  the  descent. 

With  crimson  face,  and  clothes  ragged  and  dis- 
ordered, but  griping  the  precious  sapphires,  he  slunk 
furtively  across  the  street,  and  ran  to  the  monastery. 

The  porter  did  not  wake,  and  Parphenas  furtively 
entered  the  chapel.  At  the  sight  of  the  diptych,  his 
mind  grew  calm  again.  He  tried  the  sapphire  eyes  of 
Dionysus  into  the  holes.  They  fitted  admirably,  and 
soon  were  glittering  anew  in  the  aureole  of  the  Infant 
Jesus.  He  returned  to  his  cell,  lit  the  lamp,  and  went 
to  bed.     Huddling  himself  up,  and  hiding  his  face  in 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  259 

his  hands,  lie  burst  into  a  fit  of  muffled  laughter,  like 
a  child  delighted  at  some  piece  of  mischief  and  afraid 
of  discovery.     He  then  straightway  fell  sound  asleep. 

When  he  awoke,  the  morning  waves  of  the  Propontic 
were  shining  through  the  small  barred  window,  and  the 
pigeons  cooing  and  shaking  their  wings. 

The  laughter  of  the  previous  night  was  still  in  the 
heart  of  Parphenas.  He  ran  to  the  painting-table  and 
contentedly  looked  at  his  unfinished  arabesque  of  the 
Earthly  Paradise.  Adam  and  Eve  were  seated  in  a 
meadow,  glittering  in  the  sunlight ;  it  was  a  vellum 
tapestry  of  purple,  blue,  and  gold.  And  so  the  little 
monk  worked  on,  innocently  investing  the  body 
of  Adam  with  the  proud  antique  beauty  of  young 
Dionysus. 


IV 

THK  celebrated  sophist,  Hekobolis,  Court  professor 
of  eloquence,  had  begun  to  climb  the  ladder  of 
promotion  at  the  very  lowest  rungs.  He  had  been  a 
servant  attached  to  the  Temple  of  Astarte  at  Hieropolis. 
At  sixteen,  having  stolen  some  articles  of  value,  he 
escaped  to  Constantinople,  lived  with  the  dregs  of  the 
populace,  soaked  in  every  kind  of  rascality.  Later  he 
took  to  the  high-roads,  where,  roving  on  ass-back  from 
village  to  village,  he  lived  from  hand  to  mouth,  in 
company  both  with  respectable  pilgrims  and  with 
bands  of  brigands — sacrificers  to  Dindymene,  that  god- 
dess beloved  of  the  people.  Finally  he  reached  the 
school  of  Proeres  the  rhetorician,  and  soon  became  a 
teacher  of  eloquence  himself. 

During  the  last  years  of  Constantine  the  Great,  when 
the  Christian  religion  became  fashionable  at  Court, 
Hekobolis  became  a  Christian.  The  clergy  show^ed 
him  sympathy,  but  Hekobolis  (though  never  inoppor- 
tunely) changed  his  form  of  creed  as  the  wind  blew  : 
from  Arian  he  became  Orthodox,  from  Orthodox  Arian, 
and  every  conversion  raised  him  a  step  in  oflSce. 

The  clergy  pushed  him  up  this  ascent,  and  in  turn 
he  lent  the  clergy  a  helping  hand. 

His  head  grew  grey  ;  he  became  pleasantly  corpu- 
lent, his  sage  speeches  more  and  more  honeyed  and 
insinuating,  his  cheeks  more  rosy,  his  eyes  more  kindly 
and  brilliant.  At  moments  an  evil  irony  sparkled  in 
them,  as  of  some  cold  and  arrogant  spirit,  but  the  eye- 

260 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  261 

lids  would  promptly  drop  and  the  sparkle  vanish.  All 
his  habits  were  clerical.  He  was  a  strict  observer  of 
fasts,  and  an  exquisite  judge  of  cookery.  His  lean 
diet  was  more  refined  than  the  most  sumptuous  course 
of  holiday  feeding;  just  as  his  ecclesiastical  witticisms 
were  keener  than  the  frankest  pleasantries  of  the 
Pagans.  He  used  to  be  served  with  a  cooling  drink 
made  of  beetroot  and  savoured  with  delicious  spices. 
Many  thought  it  preferable  to  wine.  When  denied 
ordinary  wheaten  bread  he  invented  cakes  of  a  desert 
manna,  with  which,  it  is  said,  Pachomius  fed  himself 
in  Egypt.  Ill-natured  folk  insinuated  that  Hekobolis 
was  a  libertine,  and  quaint  tales  were  told  about  him  at 
Constantinople.  A  young  woman  avowed  to  her  con- 
fessor that  she  had  fallen  from  chastity — 

*  *  It  is  a  great  sin !  And  with  whom  were  you  guilty, 
my  daughter  ?  "  "  With  Hekobolis,  father  !  "  The 
priestly  visage  cleared  up.  "  With  Hekobolis  ;  ah, 
really  !  Well,  well,  the  holy  man  is  devoted  to  the 
Church  !  Repent,  my  daughter ;  the  Lord  will  for- 
give! " 

S 11  eh  anedoctes  were  mere  tittle-tattle.  But  his  thick 
red  lips  were  a  trifle  too  prominent  in  the  respectable 
shorn  visage  of  the  dignitary,  although  he  usually  kept 
them  tightly  closed,  with  an  expression  of  monastic 
humility.     Women  were  fond  of  his  company. 

Sometimes  Hekobolis  used  to  disappear  for  several 
days.  No  one  fathomed  the  mystery,  for  he  kept  his 
own  counsel.  Neither  servant  nor  slave  accompanied 
him  on  these  enigmatic  journeys,  from  which  he  would 
return  calmed  and  refreshed. 

Under  the  Emperor  Constantius,  he  received  the  ap- 
pointment of  Court  rhetorician,  with  a  superb  salary, 
the  senatorial  laticlave.  and  the  blue  shoulder-ribbon. 


262  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

a  distinction  of  the  highest  dignitaries.  Nor  was  his 
ambition  satisfied. 

But  at  the  moment  when  Hekobolis  was  preparing 
to  mount  a  step  higher,  Constantius  unexpectedly  died. 
Julian,  the  Church's  enemy,  ascended  the  throne. 
Hekobolis  lost  no  whit  of  his  presence  of  mind.  He 
merely  did  what  many  others  were  doing,  but  did  it 
neither  too  soon  nor  too  late. 

Julian,  in  the  first  days  of  his  reign,  organised  a  theo- 
logical controversy  in  his  palace.  A  young  doctor  of 
philosophy,  esteemed  by  everybody  for  his  uprightness 
and  noble  nature,  Caesar  of  Cappadocia, — brother  of  the 
famous  theologian,  Basil  the  Great, — undertook  the  de- 
fence of  the  Christian  faith  against  the  Emperor  himself. 

In  such  tournaments  of  learning  Julian  authorised  an 
entire  independence  of  language,  and  even  liked  to  be 
answered  with  passion  and  complete  disregard  of  rank. 

Discussion  was  of  the  keenest  kind,  and  considerable 
numbers  of  sophists,  priests,  and  men  of  science  were 
present.  Usually  the  opponent  little  by  little  gave 
way,  yielding,  not  to  the  logic  of  the  Greek  philosopher, 
but  to  the  majesty  of  the  Roman  Emperor. 

But  on  this  occasion  it  was  not  so.  Caesar  of  Cappa- 
docia did  not  yield.  He  was  a  young  man,  almost 
feminine  in  the  grace  of  his  movements,  and  with  a 
steady  clearness  in  his  frank  eyes.  He  denominated 
the  Platonic  philosophy  "  the  tortuous  wisdom  of  the 
serpent,"  contrasting  it  with  the  heavenly  wisdom  of 
the  Gospel.  Julian  frowned,  bit  his  lips,  bridling  his 
anger  with  difficulty.  The  argument,  like  all  sincere 
discussions,  ended  without  results,  and  the  Emperor, 
recovering  his  self-possession,  quitted  the  hall  with 
a  philosophic  jest,  and  a  face  of  smilingly  regretful 
magnanimity;  in  reality,  pierced  to  the  heart. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  263 

Precisely  at  this  moment,  Hekobolis,  the  rheto:ician, 
came  up.  Julian,  who  considered  him  an  enemy,  asked 
him — 

"  What  do  you  want?" 

Hekobolis  fell  on  his  knees,  and  began  a  confession 
of  repentance.  For  long,  he  said,  he  had  hesitated; 
but  the  reasonings  of  the  Emperor  had  finally  con- 
v^inced  him.  He  cursed  the  dark  Galilean  supersti- 
tion, and  his  heart  returned  to  the  remembrance  of  his 
childhood  and  the  bright  gods  of  Olympus. 

The  Emperor  raised  the  old  man,  and,  scarcely  able 
to  speak  with  emotion,  pressed  him  convulsiv^ely  to  his 
bosom,  and  kissed  him  on  his  shaven  cheeks  and  thick 
red  lips.  His  eyes  sought  out  Caesar  of  Cappadocia  to 
feast  on  his  opponent's  humiliation. 

Julian  kept  Hekobolis  near  him  for  several  days, 
repeating  everywhere  the  story  of  his  conversion,  proud 
of  his  disciple  as  a  child  of  a  new  toy,  as  a  youth  of  his 
first  mistress. 

The  Emperor  desired  to  give  some  Court  place  of 
honour  to  his  new  friend,  but  Hekobolis  flatly  refused, 
alleging  himself  to  be  unworthy  such  distinction.  He 
had  decided  to  prepare  his  soul  for  the  virtue  of  the 
Olympians  by  a  long  novitiate;  and  to  purge  his  heart 
of  Galilean  impiety  by  personal  service  to  one  of  the 
old  gods. 

Julian  therefore  nominated  him  chief  sacrificial  priest 
of  Bithynia  and  Paphlagonia. 

Persons  bearing  this  title  were  called  by  the  Pagans 
Archiepiscopts.  The  Archbishop  Hekobolis  thus 
governed  two  Asiatic  provinces.  Having  taken  the 
new  way,  he  pursued  it  with  as  much  success  as  the 
old,  and  even  contributed  to  the  conversion  of  many 
Christians  to  Hellenism. 


264  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Hekobolis  became  the  high-priest  to  the  celebrated 
Phoenician  goddess,  Astarte  Atargatis,  where  in  child- 
hood he  had  served  as  a  slave.  This  temple  was  built 
half-way  between  Chalcedon  and  Nicomedia,  on  a  lofty- 
promontory  running  out  into  the  Propontic  Sea.  The 
place  was  called  Gargarus.  Pilgrims  came  thither  from 
all  corners  of  the  earth  to  adore  Aphrodite  Astarte, 
goddess  of  life  and  love. 


IN  one  of  the  halls  of  his  palace  at  Constantinople 
Julian  was  busy  with  affairs  of  state. 

Between  the  porphyry  columns  on  the  terrace,  looking 
out  on  the  Bosphorus,  lay  a  sparkling  view  of  the  pale 
blue  sea.  The  young  Emperor  was  seated  at  a  round 
marble  table,  covered  with  papyri  and  rolls  of  parch- 
ment. Silentiaries  of  the  palace  stooped  over  the  table, 
scribbling  audibly  with  reed-pens.  Some  had  a  sleepy 
expression,  not  being  accustomed  to  get  up  at  such  an 
early  hour.  Standing  a  little  aloof,  behind  the  colon- 
nade, two  men  were  exchanging  observations  in  a  low 
voice.  These  were  Hekobolis  and  Julius  Mauricus,  an 
oflScial  with  an  intelligent,  bilious  countenance.  This 
elegant  Court  sceptic,  amidst  general  superstition,  was 
one  of  the  last  admirers  of  Lucian,  the  satirist  of  Samos, 
author  of  stinging  dialogues,  in  which  he  railed  so  piti- 
lessly at  all  the  idols  of  Olympus  and  Golgotha,  every 
tradition  of  Greece  and  Rome.  Julian  was  dictating 
a  document  to  the  chief  priest  of  Galicia,  Arsacius — 

*  *  Do  not  allow  the  sacrificial  priests  to  frequent  the 
theatre,  to  drink  in  taverns,  or  follow  low  trades.  Re- 
spect the  obedient,  punish  the  unfaithful.  In  every 
town  cause  guest-houses  to  be  built  for  pilgrims,  who 
should  therein  find  ample  charity.  Not  only  for  Hel- 
lenist pilgrims,  but  for  all,  to  whatever  profession  of 
faith  they  may  belong.  We  ordain  to  be  distributed 
in  Galicia  thirty  thousand  measures  of  wheat,  a  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  gallons   of  wine.      Distribute 

265 


266  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

a  fifth  part  amongst  the  poor  living  nfear  the  temple, 
the  rest  amongst  pilgrims  and  the  sick.  It  is  shameful 
that  the  Hellenists  starve,  when  the  Jews  have  not  a 
beggar  amongst  them  and  the  Galileans  feed  both  their 
own  poor  and  ours.  Thej^  act  like  those  who  entice 
children  with  sweetmeats,  beginning  by  hospitality, 
inviting  to  feasts  of  brotherly  love.  Little  by  little 
they  finish  by  fasts,  flagellations,  madness,  deaths  of 
martyrs,  and  the  horror  of  hell.  Such  are  the  cus- 
tomary means  of  those  enemies  of  the  human  race  who 
call  themselves  Christians  and  brothers.  Combat  them 
by  charity,  given  in  the  name  of  the  eternal  Olympian 
gods.  Announce  in  all  cities  and  villages  that  such  is 
my  heartfelt  will.  If  I  learn  that  you  have  acted  ac- 
cording to  my  decree,  my  favour  shall  be  with  you. 
Explain  to  the  citizens  that  I  hold  myself  in  readiness 
to  come  to  their  help  at  any  moment  in  all  circum- 
stances. But  if  they  desire  to  obtain  my  favours,  let 
them  bow  before  Dindymene,  the  great  Cybele,  mother 
of  the  gods,  and  let  them  give  glory  unto  her  through- 
out all  peoples,  throughout  all  time." 

He  wrote  the  concluding  words  with  his  own  hand. 

Breakfast  was  served  —  bread,  cheese,  fresh  olives, 
and  a  light  white  wine.  Julian  ate  and  drank  without 
ceasing  work.  But  suddenly  he  turned  and  pointing  to 
the  golden  plate  of  olives,  asked  his  favourite  slave, 
who  had  been  brought  by  him  from  Gaul,  and  invari- 
ably served  him  at  table — 

"Why  this  gold  plate?  Where  is  the  other  in 
earthenware  ?  " 

'' Pardon,  sire!  .  .  .  it  is  broken.'* 

*  *  Broken  to  pieces  ?  ' ' 

"  No — at  the  edge  only  .  .  .** 

''Bring  it  here." 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  267 

The  slave  ran  to  get  the  plate  in  question. 

"  It  can  be  used  for  a  long  time  yet,"  said  Julian. 

He  smiled. 

"  My  friends,  I  have  long  observed  that  the  broken 
outlasts  the  new.  I  confess  I  have  a  fancy  for  cracked 
things.  They  have  the  charm  of  old  friends  !  .  .  . 
I  fear  novelty  and  hate  change,"  and  he  laughed 
heartily  at  himself.  **  You  see  what  philosophy  lies  in 
a  broken  plate  !  ' ' 

Julius  Mauricus  twitched  Hekobolis  by  the  sleeve — 

"  Did  you  hear  ?  That  's  his  character  !  He  keeps 
his  cracked  plates  and  expiring  gods  ;  and  that  is  how 
a  world's  destiny  is  decided  !  " 

Julian  had  become  completely  absorbed  in  edicts  and 
laws  for  reform. 

In  every  city  in  the  Empire  it  was  his  wish  to  found 
schools,  lectureships,  debating-halls  ;  special  forms  of 
prayer,  and  philosophic  sermons,  refuges  for  the  up- 
right, and  for  those  who  desired  to  devote  themselves 
to  philanthropic  meditation. 

*'What?"  whispered  Mauricus  to  Hekobolis. 
"  Monasteries  in  honour  of  Aphrodite  and  Apollo  ?  A 
new  horror  !  " 

**  Yes,  my  friend,  with  the  aid  of  the  gods  we  shall 
accomplish  it  all,"  concluded  the  EmperOr.  '*  The 
Galileans  want  to  convince  the  world  that  they  have  a 
monopoly  of  brotherly  love,  although  it  belongs  to  all 
philosophers,  whatever  be  the  gods  they  revere.  My 
task  in  the  world  is  to  preach  a  new  love  ;  a  love  free 
and  glad  as  the  very  sky  of  the  Olympians  ! ' ' 

Julian  glanced  round  those  present,  but  on  the  faces 
of  his  dignitaries  did  not  find  what  he  sought.  Depu- 
tations from  the  Christian  professors  of  rhetoric  and 
philosophy   at    this    moment   entered  the  hall.      An 


268  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

edict  forbidding  Christian  teachers  to  give  instruction 
in  classical  eloquence  had  recently  appeared.  The 
Christian  grammarians  had  therefore  to  renounce 
their  faith  or  quit  their  schools. 

Scroll  in  hand,  one  of  these  teachers  approached  the 
Emperor.  He  was  a  little  thin  man  with  a  confused 
manner,  bearing  a  strong  likeness  to  a  parrot.  Two 
raw  and  awkward  pupils  accompanied  him. 

"  Beloved  of  the  gods,  have  pity  on  us!  " 

Julian  interrupted — 

''What  's  your  name?" 

"  Papirian,  a  Roman  citizen.'* 

"  Well,  understand,  my  dear  Papirian,  I  bear  no 
grudge  against  you  ...  on  the  contrary,  remain 
Galilean.  ..." 

The  old  man  fell  at  the  Emperor's  feet  and  kissed 
them. 

**  Forty  years  have  I  been  teaching  grammar.  .  .  . 
I  know  Homer  and  Hesiod  better  than  anyone 
else.  ..." 

"  What  do  you  want  ..."  asked  Augustus  sternly. 

**  Sir,  I  have  six  children!  .  .  .  Don't  rob  me  of  my 
last  crust  !  .  .  .  My  pupils  like  me  ;  ask  them  if  I 
teach  anything  harmful  !  ' ' 

Emotion  prevented  Papirian  from  continuing  his 
speech,  and  he  pointed  to  his  pupils,  who,  not  knowing 
where  to  put  their  hands,  stood  together  staring  and 
blushing. 

"  No,  my  friends,"  said  the  Emperor  gently  but 
firmly.  '*  The  law  is  just.  To  my  mind  it  is  absurd 
that  Christian  teachers,  in  explaining  Homer,  should 
expound  away  the  gods  of  whom  Homer  sang.  If  you 
believe  that  our  wise  men  composed  mere  fables  on  the 
subject  of  our  gods,  you  should  go  to  your  churches, 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  269 

and  expound  Matthew  and  Luke  !  .  .  .     And  note, 
Galileans,  all  is  done  in  your  own  interest.  .  .  .'* 
One  of  the  rhetoricians  muttered — 
"  In  our  interest  !     We  shall  starve  !  " 

*  *  Do  you  not  fear  profanation  by  what  is  worse  than 
starvation — lying  wisdom  ?  You  say  *  Blessed  are  the 
poor  in  spirit.'  Be,  then,  poor  in  spirit  !  .  .  .  Perhaps 
you  imagine  that  I  am  ignorant  of  your  teaching  ?  I 
know  it  better  than  you  do  !  I  see  in  the  Galilean 
commandments  depths  you  have  never  dreamed  of !  .  .  . 
But  let  each  take  his  own  path.  Leave  us  our  frivo- 
lous learning  and  philosophy,  our  poor  literary 
knowledge.  What  have  these  poisoned  streams  to  do 
with  you  ?  Yours  is  a  higher  wisdom  !  We  own  the 
earthly  kingdom,  and  you  .  .  .  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven.  That 's  no  small  thing  for  humble  folk  like 
you!  .  .  .  Dialectic  and  logic  leads  to  freethinking  or 
heresies  ?  Be  then,  in  good  sooth,  simple  as  children. 
The  ignorance  of  the  fishermen  of  Capernaum  is  above 
all  the  Platonic  dialogues,  is  it  not  ?  All  the  wisdom 
of  the  Galileans  is  summed  in  the  word  *  Believe '  !  Ah, 
rhetoricians,  if  you  were  true  Christians  you  would 
bless  our  edict.  At  this  moment,  it  is  not  your  souls, 
but  your  bodies  which  rebel ;  your  bodies,  which  find 
sweetness  in  sinfulness.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  to  you, 
and  I  hope  that  you  will  learn  to  agree  with  me,  and 
that  you  will  find  that  the  Roman  Emperor  is  more  anx- 
ious for  your  souls'  salvation  than  you  are  yourselves ! ' ' 

Julian  calmly  threaded  his  way  through  the  crowd  of 
unhappy  rhetoricians,  contented  with  his  speech,  but 
Papirian,  still  kneeling,  tore  his  hair — 

*  *  Why,  Queen  of  Heaven, dost  thou  suffer  such  things 
to  be  ?  "  and  the  two  scholars,  seeing  their  master's  dis- 
tress, with  clumsy  fists  brushed  the  tears  from  their  eyes. 


VI 


JUIylAN  remembered  the  interminable  conflicts  be^ 
tween  Orthodox  and  Arians  under  Constantius  at 
the  council  of  Milan,  and  designing  to  profit  by  that 
animosity,  he  decided  to  follow  the  example  of  his 
Christian  predecessors  and  convoke  an  oecumenical 
council. 

On  one  occasion,  in  a  private  conversation,  he  had 
declared  that,  instead  of  persecuting  the  Galileans,  he 
wished  to  give  them  full  freedom  of  faith,  and  to  call 
back  from  exile  Donatists,  Caecilians,  Marcionists, 
Montanists,  and  other  heretics  banished  by  the  councils 
of  Constantine  and  Constantius.  He  thought  that 
there  was  no  better  means  of  abolishing  Christianity. 

*'  You  will  see,  my  friends,  when  all  the  sectaries 
shall  have  returned,  such  strife  will  be  kindled  between 
these  brethren,  that  they  will  begin  to  torture  each 
other  like  birds  of  prey  loosed  from  their  cage  into  the 
arena  of  the  circus.  They  will  bring  shame  upon  their 
Master's  name  more  quickly  and  effectually  than  I 
^ould  by  any  persecutions  and  martyrdoms ! ' ' 

And  so  Julian  sent  into  all  parts  of  the  Empire  edicts 
authorising  the  banished  to  return.  The  wisest  Gali- 
lean teachers  were  at  the  same  time  invited  to  come  to 
the  palace  at  Constantinople  for  a  religious  discussion  ; 
but  the  majority  of  those  invited  were  unaware  of  the 
subject  to  be  discussed,  the  wording  of  the  letters  be- 
ing skilfully  vague.  Guessing  some  trick,  many, 
pleading  sickness,  failed  to  present  themselves. 

270 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  271 

The  blue  morning  sky  seemed  dark  against  the  daz- 
zling whiteness  of  the  double  colonnade  surrounding 
the  court  known  as  the  Atrium  of  Constantine.  White 
pigeons  were  fluttering  here  and  there  in  the  sky,  with 
gleeful  beating  of  wings.  In  the  centre  of  the  court 
stood  the  statue  of  Venus  Callipyge,  in  warm  and 
beautiful  marble.  The  monks,  passing  by  her,  turned 
away,  hiding  their  eyes,  but  the  tender  temptress  re- 
mained, for  all  that,  in  their  midst.  Not  without 
purpose  had  Julian  chosen  this  situation  for  the  Gall' 
lean  council.  The  dark  robes  of  the  religious  ap- 
peared blacker  still,  their  starvation-dulled  faces  more 
meagre.  Each  strove  to  wear  an  air  of  indifiference  and 
presumption,  feigning  not  to  see  his  enemy  at  his 
elbow,  5^et  casting  stealthy  glances  of  curiosity  and 
contempt. 

**  Holy  Mother  of  God,  what  is  this  ?  Whither  are 
we  fallen?"  said  the  old  bishop  Eustace,  with  pro- 
found emotion.     '*  Let  me  pass  out,  soldiers  !  " 

**  Gently,  gently,  my  friend,"  answered  the  cen- 
turion of  the  lance-bearers,  the  barbarian  Dagalaif, 
politely  keeping  him  from  the  door. 

**  I  'm  choking  in  this  pit  of  heresy!  let  me  pass!  " 
* '  By  the  will  of  Augustus,  everybody  here  has  come 
to  the  council,"  responded  Dagalaif,  inflexibly  keeping 
him  back. 

"  But  this  is  not  a  council,  it  is  a  den  of  thieves  !  " 
Among  the  Galileans  some  more  cheerful  persons 
began  to  laugh  at  the  provincial  manners  and  the  strong 
Armenian   accent   of  Eustace,    who,    losing  courage, 
quieted  down,  and  slipped  into  a  corner,  muttering — 
* '  Lord,  Lord,  how  have  I  ofiended  Thee  ?  ' ' 
Evander  of  Nicomedia  also  quickly  repented  of  hav- 
ing come  and  of  having  led  thither  brother  Juventinus, 


272  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

a  disciple  of  Didimus,  who  had  but  newly  arrived  at 
Constantinople. 

Evander  was  one  of  the  greatest  dogmatists  of  his 
time  ;  a  man  of  profound  and  lucid  intellect.  He  had 
lost  his  health,  and  grown  prematurely  old,  over  his 
books  ;  he  was  almost  blind,  and  his  short-sighted  eyes 
worn  out  with  fatigue.  Innumerable  heresies  besieged 
his  brain,  leaving  him  no  sleep,  or  tormenting  him  in 
dreams,  ever  tempting  him  by  their  dread  subtleties. 
Evander  used  to  collect  heresies,  as  one  might  collect 
jewels  or  scientific  rarities,  in  an  immense  manuscript 
entitled  Against  Heresy.  He  hunted  for  them  greed- 
ily, imagined  those  that  might  be  in  existence,  and 
the  better  he  refuted  the  more  he  was  attracted  tow- 
ards them. 

Sometimes  he  would  entreat  God  to  grant  him 
simple  faith,  and  God  would  refuse  him  simplicity. 

In  ordinary  life  he  was  timid,  simple,  and  offenceless 
as  a  child.  For  rascals  to  deceive  Evander  was  as  easy 
as  breathing,  and  on  this  score  the  mockers  told  a  hun- 
dred stories  against  him.  Plunged  in  doctrinal  dreams, 
the  bishop  continually  found  himself  in  awkward  situa- 
tions. In  one  of  these  fits  of  abstraction  he  had  come 
to  this  singular  council,  without  thinking  why  he  went 
thither,  but  attracted  by  the  hope  of  lighting  on  a  new 
heresy.  Now  his  face  was  twitching  with  annoyance, 
and  he  shaded  his  weak  eyes  against  the  too  bright 
rays  of  the  sun,  longing  to  be  back  amongst  his  books 
in  his  little  twilight  chamber. 

Evander  kept  Juventinus  at  his  side,  and  warned  him 
against  temptation  by  criticising  various  heresies.  In 
the  centre  of  the  hall  a  vigorous  old  man  was  striding 
up  and  down.  He  had  high  cheek-bones  and  thick 
grey  hair.     It  was  the  septuagenarian  bishop  Purpuris, 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  273 

recalled  from  exile  by  Julian.  Neither  Constantine 
nor  Constantius  had  succeeded  in  stifling  the  Donatist 
heresy.  For  fifty  years  past  streams  of  blood  had 
flowed  in  Africa,  by  reason  of  the  unjust  deposition  of 
a  Donatist  in  favour  of  a  Csecilian,  or  of  a  Csecilian  in 
favour  of  a  Donatist.  Nor  could  any  augury  be  made 
as  to  the  final  issue  of  this  fratricidal  strife. 

Juventinus  noticed  that  the  Caecilian  bishop  who  was 
passing  in  front  of  Purpuris  brushed  the  vestments  of 
the  Donatist  with  the  corner  of  his  chasuble.  The 
latter  turned  fiercely  round,  with  a  growl  of  disgust, 
and,  taking  the  stuff  between  two  fingers,  shook  it 
several  times  before  the  eyes  of  everybody. 

Evander  informed  Juventinus  in  a  low  voice  that 
when  a  Caecilian  happened  to  enter  a  Donatist  con- 
gregation he  was  hunted  out  and  the  flags  touched  by 
his  feet  were  washed  with  salt  water. 

Behind  Purpuris,  dogging  him  step  by  step,  walked 
his  faithful  bodyguard,  an  enormous  half -savage  Afri- 
can, brown-skinned,  terrible,  flat-nosed,  and  thick- 
lipped,  the  deacon  Leona.  He  was  armed  with  a 
cudgel,  gripped  tightly  in  his  nervous  hands.  He  was 
an  Ethiopian  peasant,  belonging  to  the  self-mutilating 
sect  called  Circumcellions.  Weapon  in  hand,  these  sec- 
taries would  run  along  the  high-roads  offering  money 
to  passers-by,  in  return  for  destruction,  adding,  *'  Kill 
us,  or  we  will  kill  you  !  "  In  the  name  of  Christ  the 
Circumcellions  mutilated  themselves,  burned  them- 
selves, drowned  themselves,  but  never  would  hang 
themselves,  because  Judas  was  hanged.  They  declared 
that  suicide  for  God's  glory  washed  all  sin  from  the 
soul,  and  the  people  looked  on  them  as  martyrs.  Be- 
fore death,  they  abandoned  themselves  to  all  pleasures  ; 
ate,  drank,  and  offered  violence  to  women.     A  great 


274  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

number  refrained  from  using  swords,  Christ  having 
forbidden  it,  but  on  the  other  hand  they  felled  heretics 
and  pagans  with  huge  bludgeons,  '*  according  to  the 
Scriptures,"  and  with  consciences  at  ease.  While 
spilling  blood  they  would  cry  *'  Glory  be  to  God  !  " 

And  the  peaceful  inhabitants  lived  more  in  terror  of 
this  religious  cry  than  of  war-trumpets  or  the  roarings 
of  a  lion.  The  Donatists  considered  the  Circumcel lions 
as  their  guardians,  and  these  Ethiopian  peasants  find- 
ing theological  controversies  hard  to  understand,  the 
Donatists  would  point  out  beforehand  those  whom  they 
were  to  strike  according  to  the  Scriptures. 

Evander  directed  the  attention  of  Juventinus  on  g 
handsome  youth,  whose  tender  and  ingenuous  expres- 
sion seemed  almost  that  of  a  young  girl.  He  was  a 
Cainite. 

"  Blessed  be  our  tameless  brothers,  Cain,  Shem,  the 
inhabitants  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  !  "  preached  the 
Ca'inites.  ''  They  are  seeds  of  high  wisdom,  of  reason 
divine!  .  .  .  Come  to  us,  all  ye  hunted,  reprobate, 
revolted  !  Blessed  be  Judas  !  he  alone  among  the 
apostles  was  initiated  in  the  higher  knowledge  !  .  .  . 
He  betrayed  Christ  that  He  might  die  and  rise  again, 
because  he  knew  the  death  of  Christ  would  save  the 
world  !  He  who  is  initiated  in  our  wisdom  can  trans- 
gress all  limits,  daring  all,  despising  matter,  trampling 
all  fear  under  foot ;  and  giving  himself  up  to  all  sins 
and  delight  of  the  sense,  attain  that  disgust  for  matter 
which  is  the  final  purity  of  the  soul  !  " 

'*  Look,  Juventinus,  there  is  a  man  who  believes 
himself  above  archangels  and  seraphim,"  said  Evander, 
waving  his  hand  towards  a  young  and  sprightly  Egyp- 
tian, who  held  himself  aloof  from  everyone,  an  ironic 
5mi1e  on  his  lips,  which  were  painted,  like  those  of  a 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  275 

courtesan.  He  was  dressed  in  the  latest  Byzantine 
\^ogue,  his  white  hands  loaded  with  rings.  His  name 
was  Cassiodorus,  and  he  was  a  Valentinian.  '*  In  the 
Christians,"  a£5rmed  the  arrogant  Valentinians,  **  there 
is  a  soul,  as  in  animals  ;  but  there  is  no  mind,  as  in  us. 
We  alone  are  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  the  Gnosis 
and  of  the  divine  Plenum.  It  follows,  therefore,  that 
we  alone  are  worthy  to  call  ourselves  human.  All 
others  are,  as  it  were,  pigs  and  dogs." 

Cassiodorus  would  say  to  his  disciples:  '*  You  should 
know  everyone,  but  no  one  should  understand  3^ou. 
Before  the  profane,  deny  the  Gnosis,  be  dumb,  and  de- 
spise evidences  of  the  gospel.  Despise  professions  of 
faith  and  martyrdoms  ;  love  silence  and  mystery.  Be 
for  your  enemy  as  invisible,  elusive,  inviolable,  as  the 
immaterial  forces.  Ordinary  Christians  need  good 
actions  for  their  salvation  ;  but  those  who  possess  the 
highest  knowledge  of  God,  the  Gnosis,  need  not  per- 
form these  actions.  We  are  the  sons  of  light,  they  the 
sons  of  darkness,  '^e  fear  not  sin,  because  we  know 
that  sin  is  needful  to  the  material  body,  and  even  to 
the  immaterial  soul.  We  are  placed  so  high  that,  let 
our  faults  be  what  they  will,  we  cannot  err.  Our  heart 
remains  chaste  in  the  delights  of  matter,  as  pure  gold 
keeps  its  brightness  in  the  mud." 

Elsewhere  Juventinus  saw  an  old  man,  with  a  hang- 
dog expression  and  a  squint,  the  Adamite  Prodick, 
explaining  his  teaching  in  a  loud  voice.  He  believed 
in  restoring  the  innocence  of  the  first  Adam.  The 
Adamites  performed  their  mysteries  in  a  church  warmed 
like  a  bath  and  called  the  "  Eden."  I^ike  our  first 
ancestors,  they  evinced  no  shame  in  the  absence  of 
clothes,  and  assevered  that  among  themselves  all  men 
and  women  were  noted  for  lofty  modesty,  although  th^ 


276  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

innocence  of  these  paradisiac  assemblies  had  sometimes 
been  questioned. 

At  the  elbow  of  the  Adamite  Prodick  a  woman- 
pale-faced,  grey-haired,  and  proud,  her  eyes  half-shut 
with  fatigue — was  sitting  on  the  ground.  She  wore 
episcopal  garb.  She  was  the  prophetess  of  the  Mon- 
tanists.  Yellow-skinned  Copts  were  tending  her  de- 
votedly, gazing  on  her  with  solicitude,  and  calling  her 
' '  Heavenly  Dove. ' '  Consuming  themselves  for  years 
in  ecstasies  of  impossible  love,  they  preached  the  duty 
of  bringing  humanity  to  an  end,  through  the  practice 
of  continence.  Scattered  in  numerous  bands  on  the 
burning  hills  of  Phrygia,  near  the  ruins  of  Papusa, 
these  pallid  dreamers  would  remain  sitting  motionless, 
day  after  day,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon,  on 
which  the  Saviour  was  to  appear.  On  foggy  evenings, 
above  the  grey  plain,  in  the  clouds,  in  rays  of  melting 
gold  they  would  catch  visions  of  the  glory  of  God — 
the  new  Zion  descending  upon  earth.  Year  after  year 
they  would  wait,  dying  at  last  in  the  hope  that  the 
celestial  kingdom  was  j  ust  about  to  descend  upon  the 
ruins  of  Papusa.  Sometimes  lifting  her  wearied  eye- 
lids, and  with  troubled  gaze  fixed  in  the  distance,  the 
prophetess  was  murmuring  in  Syriac — 

'*  Maran  Atha''—''  The  Lord  is  coming  !  " 

And  her  Coptic  servants  bowed  towards  her,  the 
better  to  hear. 

Juventinus  listened  to  the  explanations  of  Evander. 
All  this  resembled  some  wild  and  torturing  dream. 
His  heart  shivered,  under  a  bitter  flood  of  pity. 

Silence  was  at  last  restored  ;  all  looks  turned  towards 
the  same  spot,  at  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  court, 
where  Julian  was  standing.  His  face  was  clear  and 
firm,    and  he  wore  an  air  of  assumed  indifference 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  277 

His  garb  was  the  simple  white  chlamys  of  the  philo- 
sophers. 

*'  Old  men  and  masters,"  said  Augustus,  addressing 
the  assembly,  **  we  have  thought  it  well  to  give  evi- 
dence of  our  indulgence  and  compassion  to  all  our 
subjects  who  profess  the  Galilean  teaching.  For  those 
who  are  gone  astray  it  is  better  to  feel  compassion  than 
hatred ;  better  to  lead  the  obstinate  to  the  truth  by  ex- 
hortation, and  in  no  wise  by  harryings,  blows,  or  cor- 
poreal tortures.  Wishing  to  restore  peace  to  the  world, 
so  long  troubled  by  religious  discord,  I  have  called  you, 
O  learned  Galileans,  together.  We  shall  hope  that 
under  our  protection  you  will  give  an  example  of  those 
lofty  virtues  which  befit  your  wisdom  and  your  spiritual 
divinity." 

So,  with  the  easy  gestures  of  a  practised  speaker,  he 
began  a  speech  prepared  beforehand.  But  the  bene- 
volent words  were  not  lacking  in  ironic  allusion. 

He  made  it  clear  he  had  not  forgotten  the  stupid 
and  coarse  altercations  that  had  taken  place  under 
Constantius,  at  the  council  of  Milan.  He  mentioned, 
with  an  evil  smile,  those  audacious  persons  who,  re- 
gretting that  they  were  no  longer  allowed  to  persecute 
or  martyrise  their  brethren,  had  urged  the  ignorant 
populace  into  rebellion,  poured  oil  on  fire,  and  at- 
tempted to  fill  the  world  with  fratricidal  madness. 
These  were  the  real  enemies  of  humanity,  and  guilty  of 
the  greatest  evil  of  all,  namely,  anarchy. 

And  he  finished  his  harangue  by  the  following  un- 
expected words — 

**  We  have  called  back  from  banishment  your  broth- 
ers, who  had  been  hunted  forth  from  the  councils  of 
Constantine  and  Constantius, because  we  desired  to  give 
liberty  to  all  citizens  of  the  Roman  Empire.     And  for 


278  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

the  complete  suppression  of  discord,  we  confide  to  you, 
wise  teachers,  the  duty  of  settling  for  Galileans  a 
single  and  unique  profession  of  faith.  It  is  to  this  end 
that  we  have  convoked  you  in  our  palace.  Judge  now, 
and  authoritatively  decide.  In  order  to  afford  you  full 
freedom  of  speech  we  will  withdraw,  and  await  your 
wise  decision." 

Before  anyone  had  time  to  grasp  the  situation,  or  to 
answer  this  strange  discourse,  Julian,  surrounded  by 
his  philosophic  friends,  left  the  court  and  disappeared. 

Everybody  was  dumb.  Someone  uttered  a  long 
sigh,  and  in  the  general  silence  the  beating  of  pigeons' 
wings  and  the  rippling  of  the  fountain  alone  were 
audible.  Suddenly,  on  the  raised  marble  dais,  which 
had  served  as  tribune  for  Julian,  appeared  the  kindly 
old  man  at  whose  provincial  bearing  and  Armenian 
accent  everybody  had  laughed. 

His  face  was  red,  his  eyes  burning  with  vehemence. 
The  Emperor's  speech  had  offended  the  old  bishop. 
Filled  with  fearless  religious  zeal,  Eustace  advanced 
towards  the  members  of  the  council — 

"  Fathers  and  brothers,"  he  exclaimed,  and  his 
voice  was  so  stern  and  unshaken  that  no  one  thought 
of  laughing  at  it — '*  Fathers  and  brothers,  let  us  part 
in  peace  !  He  who  has  called  us  here,  to  seduce  and 
to  insult  us,  knows  neither  the  canons  of  the  Church 
nor  the  rules  of  the  councils.  He  hates  even  the  name 
of  Jesus  !  Let  us  not  be  a  sport  to  our  enemies,  let  us 
restrain  all  angry  words  !  I  entreat  you,  in  the  name 
of  the  eternal  God,  let  us  separate  in  silence  !  " 

He  pronounced  these  words  in  a  loud  and  ringing 
voice,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  raised  gallery,  curtained  by 
purple  hangings.  The  Emperor,  surrounded  by  bis 
Hellenist  friends,  had  just  appeared  there.     A  murmur 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  279 

of  fright  and  astonishment  ran  through  the  assembly. 
Julian  gazed  at  Eustace,  but  the  old  man  sustained  his 
gaze.     The  Emperor's  face  grew  dark. 

At  that  moment  the  Donatist  Purpuris  brutally 
thrust  off  the  bishop  and  took  his  place  on  the  tri- 
bune. 

' '  Do  not  listen  to  him, ' '  cried  Purpuris  ;  *  *  do  not  let 
us  separate,  in  scorn  of  the  will  of  Augustus  !  The 
Csecilians  bear  a  grudge  against  him,  because  he  has 
delivered  us." 

"  No,  in  all  truth,  no,  my  brothers  !  "  protested 
Eustace. 

'  *  lycave  us,  ye  accursed !  We  are  not  your  brothers ! 
We  are  the  wheat-ears  of  God — you  the  straw  des- 
tined for  the  burning  !  .  .  ."  And  waving  his  hand 
towards  the  apostate  Emperor  Purpuris  continued  in 
a  solemn  tone,  as  if  chanting  a  nuptial  song — 

*  *  Behold  our  saviour  !  Look  on  him  !  .  .  .  Glory, 
glory,  to  the  most  compassionate  and  learned  Augus- 
tus! .  .  .  Thou  shalt  trample  on  the  snake  and  the 
reptile  !  Thou  shalt  conquer  the  lion,  for  the  angels 
watch  over  thee  in  all  thy  doings.  .  .  .     Hail  ! ' ' 

The  congregation  became  unsettled.  Some  declared 
that  the  advice  of  Eustace  must  be  followed.  Others 
asked  to  be  heard,  not  wishing  to  lose  the  opportunity 
of  expounding  their  doctrines  before  a  general  religious 
council.     Faces  kindled  and  voices  rose. 

"  Eet  a  Csecilian  enter  one  of  our  churches  now  "  ex- 
ulted Purpuris, "and  we  '11  place  our  hands  on  his  head, 
not  to  choose  him  as  our  shepherd,  but  to  crack  his 
skull!" 

Many  forgot  the  purpose  of  the  meeting  and  engaged 
In  subtle  discussions,  seeking  converts.  The  Basilidian, 
Triphon,who  hailed  from  Egypt,  surrounded  by  curious 


28o  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

hearers,  exhibited  a  transparent  chrysolith  amulet, 
bearing  the  mysterious  word  ' '  Abraxa. ' ' 

**  He  who  shall  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word 
Abraxa^^^  Triphon  was  saying  to  the  group  around 
him,  * '  shall  receive  all  freedom,  shall  become  an  im- 
mortal, and,  tasting  all  sins,  be  sullied  by  none. 
Abraxa  represents  by  letters  the  number  of  the  moun- 
tains in  heaven,  three  hundred  and  sixty-five.  Above 
the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  celestial  spheres,  above 
the  hierarchies  of  angels  and  archangels,  there  is  a  cer- 
tain Nothingness,  nameless,  and  more  beautiful  than 
any  light,  a  motionless  and  sterile  Nothingness  ..." 

''  The  motionless  and  sterile  nothingness  is  in  your 
own  stupid  head  ! ' '  growled  an  Arian  bishop,  striding 
straight  up  to  Triphon. 

The  Gnostic,  according  to  his  custom,  became  silent, 
locking  his  lips  in  a  contemptuous  smile,  and  raising  a 
forefinger — 

"  Wisdom  !  Wisdom!  "  he  ejaculated,  and  vanished 
in  the  crowd. 

The  prophetess  of  Papusa,  among  her  anxious  Copts, 
stood  up,  terrible,  pale,  half-swooning,  and  groaned,  as 
if  her  troubled  eyes  saw  nothing,  as  if  her  ears  heard 
nothing — 

**  Maran  Atha  "— "  The  Lord  is  coming  !  " 

The  disciples  of  the  youth  Kpiphanes,  a  Pagan  demi- 
god or  Christian  martyr,  worshipped  in  the  oratories  of 
Cephalonia,  were  declaiming  brotherhood  and  equality— 

*  *  There  are  no  laws  but  these :  Destroy  all ;  let  all  be 
in  common — women,  lands,  riches,  like  earth,  air,  and 
sun  !" 

The  Ophites,  serpent-worshippers,  raised  above  their 
heads  a  cross,  round  which  a  tame  adder  was  coiling — 

"  The  wisdom  of  the  Serpent,"  they  said,  "  gives 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  281 

man  a  knowledge  of  good  and  evil ;  behold  the  saviour, 
Ophiomorphos,  the  serpentiform  !  Fear  nothing  i 
Hearken  to  him  !  Taste  the  forbidden  fruit,  and  ye 
shall  be  even  as  gods  !  " 

A  perfumed  and  curled  Marcosianist,  lifting  on  high 
a  crystal  cup  full  of  water  with  the  skilful  gestures  of 
a  juggler,  invited  curiosity — 

' '  Look  at  this  miracle  !  the  water  's  going  to  boil 
and  be  turned  into  blood  !  " 

Coiabasians  were  there, counting  their  fingers  with  in- 
conceivable celerity,  and  demonstrating  that  all  the  num- 
bers of  Pythagoras,  every  mystery  of  heaven  and  earth, 
were  comprised  in  the  letters  ot  the  Greek  alphabet — 

'  *  Alpha,  Omega — the  beginning  and  the  end,  and 
between  them  the  Trinity ;  Beta,  Gamma,  Delta — the 
Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  !  You  see  how 
simple  it  is  !  " 

Fabionites,  gluttonous  Carpocratians,  debauched  Bar- 
belonites  stood  up,  preaching  such  follies  that  hearers 
possessing  a  vestige  of  morality  put  their  fingers  in  their 
ears.  Many  strove  to  move  their  audiences  by  the  at- 
tractive force  over  the  imagination  possessed  by  madness 
and  monstrosity.  Every  man  was  certain  of  his  own  gos- 
pel. Yet  all  were  enemies.  Even  the  minute  sect,  hidden 
in  remote  provinces  of  Africa,  the  Rogationists,  were  cer- 
tain that  Christ  returning  upon  earth  would  find  the  true 
comprehension  of  the  Gospel  only  amongst  themselves, 
in  a  few  Mauritanian  villages,  and  nowhere  else. 

Evander  of  Nicomedia,  forgetting  Juventinus,  could 
scarcely  scribble  down  the  new  heresies  on  his  tablets 
fast  enough,  happy  as  a  collector  who  has  lit  upon  a 
new  set  of  trinkets. 

And  meantime,  in  the  upper  gallery,  the  young 
Emperor,  surrounded  by  his  white-robed  philosophic 


282  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

friends,  was  gazing  down  upon  the  maddened  tumult 
with  malign  satisfaction.  The  Pythagorean  Prod  us, 
Nyraphidian,  Priscus,  ^desius,  old  lamblicus,  the 
pious  bishop  Hekobolis,  were  at  his  side.  They  neither 
laughed  nor  jested.  Their  faces  remained  almost  impas- 
sive and  their  attitude  a  becoming  one;  only  from  time 
to  time  across  their  closed  lips  flitted  a  furtive  and  pity- 
ing smile.  From  the  shadow  of  the  purple  hangings 
they  looked  down  on  the  spectacle,  as  gods  must  regard 
the  hostilities  of  men,  or  circus-lovers  the  beasts  of  the 
arena.     It  was  indeed  a  banquet  for  Hellenic  sages. 

In  the  midst  of  the  general  confusion  the  effeminate 
young  Cainite  leapt  on  the  tribune  and  shouted,  with 
such  conviction  in  his  voice  that  everybody  turned 
round,  overwhelmed  at  the  impiety — 

**  Blessed  be  rebels  against  God  !  Blessed  be  Cain, 
Shem,  Judas,  the  inhabitants  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah ! 
Blessed  be  their  brother,  the  Angel  of  Infinite  Dark- 


ness 


!  " 


The  bishop  Purpuris,  who  for  an  hour  past  had  not 
been  able  to  get  a  hearing,  to  relieve  his  feelings  rushed 
at  the  Cainite  and  raised  his  sinewy  hand  to  close  the 
lips  of  the  blasphemer. 

A  crowd  dragged  him  back. 

**  Father,  it  is  unbecoming  !  " 

**  I^et  me  be,  let  me  be  !  I  will  not  endure  such 
abomination,"  roared  Purpuris;  "take  this,  seed  of 
Cain  !  " 

And  the  bishop  spat  in  his  face. 

A  general  fray  followed,  which  would  have  enlarged 
into  a  battle  if  Roman  soldiers  had  not  intervened. 
These  parted  the  Galileans,  with  the  words — 

**  You  must  not  act  so  in  this  place  !  Have  yov 
not  got  enough  chulrches  to  fight  each  other  in  ?  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  283 

Purpuris  was  dragged  off,  and  ordered  to  quit  the 
atrium. 

He  called  out — 

**  I^eona,  deacon  I<eona  !  '* 

The  deacon  thrust  the  soldiers  aside,  felled  two  of 
them  to  the  earth,  freed  Purpuris,  and  set  the  terrible 
mace  of  the  Circumcellions  whirling  above  the  heads 
of  the  heresiarchs. 

"  Glory  to  God!"  shouted  the  African,  seeking  a 
victim. 

Suddenly  the  club  sank  out  of  his  loosened  hands. 
All  stood  petrified.  Then  a  sharp  cry,  uttered  by  one 
of  the  Coptic  servants  of  the  prophetess  of  Papusa,  rent 
the  general  hush.  Kneeling,  his  face  transfigured  by 
fear,  he  pointed  to  the  tribune — 

"The  Devil  !  The  Devil  !  Look  at  the  Prince  of 
Evil!" 

It  was  Julian  the  Emperor,  on  the  marble  dais  above 
the  crowd,  in  his  white  chlamys,  his  arms  crossed  on 
his  breast.  Terrible  glee  burned  in  his  eyes  ;  and  to 
many  indeed,  at  that  moment,  the  recreant  prince  ap- 
peared dreadful  as  Satan,  his  brother. 

*'  Is  this  how  you  fulfil  the  law  of  love,  Galileans  ?  " 
he  said  to  the  dumbfounded  assembly.  **  How  much 
your  mercy  and  forgiveness  are  worth  !  .  .  .  Verily 
the  wild  animals  have  more  compassion  than  brethren 
like  you  !  In  the  words  of  your  Master  :  * '  Woe  upon 
you,  law-makers,  because  you  have  taken  the  key  of  the 
house,  and,  hindering  others  from  entering,  have  not 
entered  in  yourselves  !    Woe  to  you,  Pharisees!  ..." 

And  enjoying  their  silence  he  added  after  a  pause — 

*  *  If  you  cannot  rule  yourselves,  Galileans,  I  say  to 
you,  in  order  to  prevent  greater  misfortunes,  you  shall 
now  obey,  and  submit  yourselves  to  me  ! ' ' 


VII 


JUST  as  Julian,  leaving  the  Atrium  of  Constantine, 
was  descending  the  great  flight  of  steps  and  pro- 
ceeding to  sacrifice  in  the  direction  of  the  little  Temple 
of  Tyche,  the  goddess  of  happiness,  near  the  palace, 
the  old  bishop  Maris,  blind,  white-haired,  and  bent 
double,  approached  him,  led  by  a  child.  A  great 
crowd  had  gathered  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  With 
a  solemn  gesture,  the  bishop  stopped  the  Kmperor  and 
said  to  him — 

**  lyisten,  peoples,  tribes,  young  and  old,  all  that  be 
upon  the  earth,  listen  to  me  !  And  ye  powers  above, 
Angels,  who  will  blot  out  soon  this  martyr-maker !  It 
is  not  the  Amorite  king  who  shall  fall,  nor  Ogyges, 
King  of  Thebes,  but  the  Serpent,  the  Great  Spirit,  the 
revolted  Assyrian,  the  common  enemy,  who  shall  cause 
a  multitude  of  threats  and  violences  upon  earth  ! 
Hear,  O  heaven,  and  inspire  the  earth  !  .  .  .  And 
thou  also,  Caesar,  listen  to  my  prophecy,  for  to-day,  by 
my  mouth,  God  speaks  !  .  .  .  Thy  days  are  num- 
bered !  Soon  wilt  thou  perish  !  Like  dust  lifted  by 
the  tempest,  like  the  hiss  of  an  arrow,  like  the  noise 
of  thunder,  like  the  swiftness  of  light  !  The  spring  of 
Castaly  shall  be  dried  up  forever,  and  a  mockery  to  us 
that  pass  by  !  Apollo  shall  become  again  a  worthless 
idol,  Daphne  a  tree  bewept  in  fable,  and  the  grass 
shall  grow  in  your  temples  overturned.  O  !  abomina- 
tions of  Sennacherib  !  so  we  have  foretold  it.  We 
Galileans — despised  of  the  earth — adorers  of  the  Cruci- 

284 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  285 

fied — ignorant  disciples  of  the  fishermen  of  Capernaum 
—  we,  weakened  by  long  fasting,  half-dead,  who 
struggle  in  vain,  we  nevertheless  shall  overcome 
you  !  ...  Unfold  to  me.  Imperial  sophist,  your 
speeches,  your  syllogisms,  your  antitheses  ;  and  we 
shall  see  how,  on  our  side,  ignorant  fishermen  can 
speak  ! 

**  David  shall  chant  again  —  David,  who  with  his 
strange  pebbles  from  the  brook  slew  Goliath.  Thanks 
be  to  Thee,  O  Lord  !  the  Church  to-day  is  purified  by 
persecution  !  O  pure  virgins,  kindle  your  torches, 
array  the  bishop  with  a  fair  robe,  for  our  ornament  is 
the  robe  of  Christ  !" 

The  old  man  almost  chanted  the  last  words  as  in  a 
liturgy,  and  the  crowd,  with  emotion,  murmured  ap- 
proval.    Someone  cried  out  aloud — 

"  Amen  !  " 

**  Have  you  finished,  old  man?"  asked  Julian, 
calmly. 

The  Kmperor  had  listened  to  the  long  speech  im- 
perturbably,  as  if  it  had  been  addressed  to  someone 
else. 

*'  Here  are  my  hands,  executioners  .  .  .  bind 
them  !  .  .  .  Lead  me  to  death  !  .  .  .  |^ord,  I  accept 
Thy  crown  !" 

The  bishop  raised  his  faded  eyes  skyward. 

*'  Do  you  imagine,  brave  man,  that  I  shall  send  you 
to  execution  ?  "  said  Julian.  '*  You  are  mistaken.  I 
shall  bid  you  go  in  peace.  In  my  heart  there  is  no 
anger  whatever  against  you.   ..." 

' '  What  is  he  saying  ?  ' '  the  crowd  asked  each  other. 

"  Tempt  me  not  !  I  will  not  deny  Christ.  Hence, 
enemy  of  mankind  !  Headsman,  lead  me  to  death  ! 
...     I  am  ready.  ..." 


286  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

*'  There  are  no  headsmen  here,  my  friend  ;  they  are 
only  simple  good  folk,  like  yourself.  Set  your  mind  at 
rest.  My  existence  is  more  wearisome  and  ordinary 
than  you  imagine.  I  have  heard  you  with  curiosity, 
for  I  admire  eloquence,  even  when  it  is  Galilean!  .  .  . 
And  how  much  there  was  in  it  .  .  .  the  abomination 
of  Sennacherib,  the  king  of  the  Amorites,  the  stones  of 
David  and  Goliath  !  The  style  of  your  discourse  can 
scarcely  be  called  simple.  Read  our  Demosthenes, 
Plato,  and  particularly  Homer.  These  were  really 
simple  in  their  words  as  children,  or  gods.  Yes,  Gali- 
leans, learn  the  greatness  of  calm  from  them !  .  .  .  God, 
remember,  was  not  in  the  tempest  but  in  the  silence. 
That  is  all  my  lesson.  That  is  all  my  vengeance, 
since  vengeance  you  must  have  from  me.  ..." 

* '  May  God  strike  thee  blind,  renegade  ! ' '  began 
Maris. 

"  God's  wrath  will  not  give  thee  back  sight  by 
striking  me  blind  !  "  answered  Julian. 

* '  I  thank  God  for  my  blindness  ! ' '  exclaimed  the 
old  man  ;  "  it  does  not  allow  me  to  see  your  damned 
face.  Apostate  !" 

' '  What  spitef ulness  !  in  so  frail  a  body  !  You  are 
always  speaking  of  humility  and  love,  Galileans;  and 
yet  what  hate  is  in  every  one  of  your  words  !  I  have 
just  quitted  an  assemblage  where  the  Fathers  of  the 
Church  were  ready  to  fly  at  each  other  like  wild  beasts. 
And  now  comes  this  unbridled  speech  of  yours !  Why 
this  hatred  ?  Am  I  not  your  brother  ?  Oh,  if  you 
knew  at  this  moment  how  kindly  my  heart  feels  towards 
you !  May  the  Olympians  soften  your  cruel  and  suffer- 
ing soul,  poor  blind  man !  Go  in  peace,  and  remember 
that  the  Galileans  are  not  the  only  men  who  can  par- 
don! .  .  ." 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  287 

**  Believe  him  not,  brethren  !  .  »  .  It  is  a  trick,  a 
snare  of  the  Serpent.     God  of  Israel,  have  no  mercy  ! '  * 

Paying  no  attention  to  the  curses  of  the  old  man, 
Julian,  in  his  white  tunic,  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd  with  the  haughty  bearing  of  one  of  the  old  sagefe 


VIII 

IT  was  a  stormy  night.  At  rare  intervals  a  weak 
moon-ray  darted  between  hurrying  black  clouds 
and  mingled  itself  strangely  with  the  throbbings  of 
lightning.  A  warm  salt-laden  wind  was  blowing 
violently.  On  the  left  shore  of  the  Bosphorus  a  horse- 
man was  approaching  a  lonely  ruin.  In  immemorial 
Trojan  times  this  fortification  had  been  used  as  a 
watch-tower.  It  was  now  little  more  than  a  heap  of 
stones  and  half-demolished  walls,  overgrown  by  tall 
grass.  But  at  its  foot  a  small  chamber  still  served  as 
shelter  to  shepherds  and  poor  travellers. 

Tethering  his  horse  under  a  dismantled  doorway, 
and  brushing  through  the  burdock -leaves,  the  rider 
knocked  at  a  low  door — 

*'ItisI,  Meroe  !     Open  !  .  .  ." 

An  old  Egyptian  woman  opened  the  door  and  ad- 
mitted him  to  the  interior  of  the  tower.  The  traveller 
came  near  a  torch  which  lighted  up  his  face.  He  was 
Julian  the  Emperor. 

The  two  went  out,  the  old  woman,  who  knew  the 
place  well,  leading  Julian  by  the  hand.  Parting  the 
briers  and  thistles  she  revealed  a  low  entry  in  one  face 
of  a  little  ravine  in  the  cliflf,  and  went  down  the  steps 
within.  The  sea  lay  near,  and  the  shock  of  the  waves 
below  made  the  cliff  tremble,  but  arched  rockwalls  com- 
pletely sheltered  them  from  the  wind.  The  Egyptian 
halted— 

"  Here,  my  lord,  is  a  lamp,  and  the  key.  You  must 
turn  it  twice.     The  monastery-door  is  open.     If  you 

288 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  289 

meet  the  guardian  brother,  fear  nothing ;  I  have  given 
him  money.  Only  make  no  mistake;  it  is  in  the  upper 
passage,  the  third  cell  to  the  left." 

Julian  opened  the  door  and  took  a  long  time  descend- 
ing a  steep  slope  of  huge  stone-hewn  steps.  The  tun- 
nel soon  became  a  passage,  so  narrow  that  two  men 
could  not  pass  each  other  in  it.  This  secret  way 
joined  the  watch-tower  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
chasm  with  a  new  Christian  monastery. 

Julian  emerged  high  above  the  sea,  but  still  between 
steep  cliffs  washed  by  the  tide.  He  began  to  climb  a 
narrow  rocky  stair  by  daylight.  Arrived  at  the  sum- 
mit he  found  a  brick  wall,  which  he  climbed  with  some 
difficulty.  He  found  himself  in  the  little  cloistered 
garden. 

He  penetrated  farther  into  a  small  court,  in  which 
the  walls  were  hung  with  wild  roses.  The  air  was  full 
of  perfume.  The  shutters  of  one  of  the  windows  on 
the  ground  floor  were  not  closed  from  within.  Julian 
gently  opened  them,  and  entered  through  the  window. 
A  gust  of  imprisoned  air  filled  his  nostrils  with  odours  of 
moisture,  incense,  mice,  medicinal  herbs,  and  fresh  ap- 
ples, with  which  the  cautious  nuns  had  filled  their  stores. 

The  Kmperor  went  along  a  corridor  into  which 
opened  two  rows  of  doors.  He  counted  the  third  to 
the  left  and  softly  opened  it.  An  alabaster  lamp  faintly 
lighted  the  cell.  He  made  his  breathing  as  noiseless 
as  possible. 

A  woman,  dressed  in  the  dark  robe  of  a  nun,  lay 
stretched  upon  a  low  bed.  She  must  have  fallen  asleep 
during  prayer,  too  weary  to  undress.  Long  lashes 
shadowed  the  pale  cheeks,  and  the  brows  wore  a  slight 
majestic  frown,  like  the  frown  of  the  dead. 

Julian  recognised  Arsinoe. 


290  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

She  had  greatly  changed.  Her  hair  alone  had  re. 
mained  unaltered.  It  was  still  golden  brown  at  its 
roots,  and  at  its  ends  pale  yellow,  like  honey  standing 
in  the  sun. 

The  eyelids  trembled.     She  sighed. 

Before  Julian's  remembrance  arose  that  proud  body 
of  the  young  Amazon  bathed  in  light,  dazzling  as  the 
mellow  Parthenon  marbles,  and,  with  a  gesture  of 
irresistible  love,  Julian  stretched  out  his  arms  to  the 
nun  sleeping  under  the  shadow  of  the  tall  black  cross. 
He  murmured — 

"  Arsinoe  !  " 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes,  and  gazed  at  him  without 
astonishment  or  fear,  as  if  she  had  known  he  would 
come.  But  returning  to  herself,  she  shivered,  and 
passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead. 

He  came  near  her — 

*'  Fear  nothing  ;  at  a  word  from  you  I  will  go  away." 

"  Why  have  you  come  ?  " 

*'  I  wished  to  know  if  indeed  ..." 

**  What  matters  it,  Julian  ?  We  cannot  understand 
each  other." 

**  Do  you  really  believe  in  *  Him,'  Arsinoe  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer  and  lowered  her  eyes. 

*  *  Do  you  remember  our  night  at  Athens  ?  ' '  con- 
tinued the  Emperor.  **  Do  you  remember  then  how 
you  tempted  me,  the  Galilean  monk,  as  now  I  am 
tempting  you  ?  The  old  pride,  the  old  force,  are  still 
on  your  face,  Arsinoe,  and  not  humility,  O  slave  of 
the  Galilean  !     Tell  me  the  truth." 

''  I  wish  for  power,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

**  Power  !  Then  you  still  remember  our  compact— 
our  alliance  ?  "  exclaimed  Julian  joyfully. 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  sad  smile — 


\ 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  291 

**  Oh  no  !  Power  over  the  people  is  not  worth  the 
labour  of  obtaining  it.      Vou  have  learned  that  !  " 

**  And  this  is  why  you  go  forth  into  the  desert  ?  " 

"Yes  .  .  .  and  for  freedom's  sake." 

"  Arsinoe,  as  of  old,  you  care  only  for  yourself  !  " 

"  I  wish  to  love  others  as  '  He'  commands,  but  T 
cannot.     I  detest  them,  and  I  detest  myself ! ' ' 

"  Then  it  is  better  not  to  live  !  " 

**  One  must  conquer  oneself,"  she  said  slowly c 
**  One  must  conquer  in  oneself  not  only  the  distaste  for 
death  but  also  distaste  for  life,  which  is  very  diffi- 
-^ult,  because  a  life  like  mine  is  much  more  terrible 
than  death.  But  if  one  succeeds  in  self-conquest  to 
the  end,  Life  and  Death  become  as  nothing,  and  a 
greater  liberty  is  gained  !  " 

Her  fine  brows  were  knit  into  a  frown  of  indomitable 
will. 

Julian  looked  at  her  in  despair. 

*  *  What  have  they  made  of  you  ?  "  he  murmured. 
**  You  are  all,  all,  executioners  and  martyrs  !  Why 
do  you  keep  torturing  j-ourselves?  Do  you  not  see 
that  within  your  soul  there  is  nothing  but  hate  and 
despair  ?  ' ' 

She  fixed  on  him  eyes  full  of  anger — 

' '  Why  did  you  come  here  ?  I  never  summoned 
you.  Go  !  .  .  .  What  matters  it  to  me  what  you 
think  !  My  own  thoughts  and  sufferings  are  enough 
for  me  to  bear.  Xbere  is  an  abyss  between  us  which 
none  living  can  cross  over.  You  tell  me  that  I  do  not 
believe.  .  .  .  That  is  precisely  the  cause  of  my  self- 
hatred.  I  do  not  believe,  but  I  wish  to  believe.  Do 
you  understand  ?  I  wish  and  I  shall  believe.  I  shall 
force  myself.  I  shall  torture  my  flesh — dry  it  up  by 
hunger  and  thirst,  make  it  more  unfeeling  than  stones. 


292  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

I  will  tame  my  intelligence,  I  will  slay  it,  I  will  kill  it, 
because  it  is  the  Devil,  and  more  seducing  than  any 
passion.  That  shall  be  my  last  victory,  and  the  best, 
because  it  will  set  me  free.  Then  I  shall  see  if  any- 
thing will  dare  revolt  in  me  and  say,  *  I  do  not  be- 
lieve ! '  " 

She  stretched  her  joined  hands  heavenward,  with  a 
suppliant  gesture — 

*'  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  me  !  Lord,  where  art 
Thou  ?     Hear  me,  and  pardon  me  !  " 

Julian  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her,  drew 
her  to  himself,  and  his  triumphant  eyes  sparkled — 

*'  O  girl,  I  see  now,  you  are  not  able  to  leave  us  ! 
You  willed  it,  but  willed  the  impossible  !  Come  ! 
Come  now  with  me  !  To-morrow  you  shall  be  the 
spouse  of  the  Roman  Emperor,  mistress  of  the  world  ! 
I  have  entered  this  place  like  a  thief ;  I  shall  go  out 
with  my  prey  like  a  lion  !  What  a  victory  over  the 
Galileans  !  'Who  can  hinder  us  ?  We  will  dare  every- 
thing, and  walk  as  gods  ! 

The  face  of  Arsinoe  became  sad  and  tranquil.  She 
looked  at  Julian  pityingly,  without  thrusting  him 
away — 

' '  Unhappy  man  !  .  .  .  You  are  unhappy  as  I.  You 
yourself  know  not  whither  you  wish  to  lead  me.  On 
whom  do  you  reckon  ?  In  whom  put  your  trust  ? 
Your  gods  are  decaying,  dead.  ...  I  will  flee  into 
the  desert,  far  from  contaminating  fables,  far  from  this 
terrifying  smell  of  rottenness.  Leave  me.  ...  I  can 
aid  you  in  nothing.  .  .  .     Go.  ..." 

Wrath  and  passion  shone  in  Julian's  eyes  ;  but  more 
calmly  still,  and  so  pityingly  that  his  very  heart 
shivered  and  froze  as  under  the  blow  of  deadly  insult, 
she  went  on — 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  293 

**  Why  do  you  delude  yourself?  Ar^you  not  waver- 
ing, perishable,  as  we  all  are  ?  Think  :  what  means 
this  charity  of  yours  ?  These  guest-houses  —  these 
sermons  of  the  sacrificial  priests  ?  All  that  is  new,  un- 
known to  the  ancient  heroes  of  Hellas.  .  .  .  Julian  ! 
Julian  !  are  your  gods  the  ancient  Olympians,  lumin- 
ous and  pitiless  —  terrible  sons  of  the  azure  —  rejoicing 
in  the  blood  of  victims  and  in  the  pains  of  mortals  ? 
Human  blood  and  suffering  were  the  very  nectar  of  the 
old  gods  !  Yours,  seduced  by  the  faith  of  the  fisher- 
men of  Capernaum,  are  sick  and  humble  weaklings, 
full  of  compassion  for  men.  .  .  .  But  that  pity  is 
mortal  to  your  gods  ! 

"  Yes,"  she  continued  implacably  ;  "  you  are  sick, 
you  are  all  too  weak  for  your  wisdom  !  That  is  your 
penalty,  Hellenists  of  too  late  a  day.  You  have 
strength  neither  for  good  nor  for  evil.  You  are  neither 
day  nor  night,  nor  life  nor  death  ;  your  heart  wavers, 
here  and  there.  You  have  left  one  bank,  and  cannot 
reach  the  other.  You  believe,  and  you  do  not  believe. 
You  betray  yourselves,  you  hesitate;  you  will,  and  you 
^o  not  will,  because  you  do  not  know  on  what  to  set 
your  will.  They  alone  are  strong  who,  seeing  one 
truth,  are  blind  to  all  other.  They  will  conquer  us — 
us  who  are  wise  and  weak  !  " 

Julian  raised  his  head  with  an  effort,  as  if  waking 
from  some  evil  dream,  and  said — 

*'  You  are  unjust,  Arsinoe.  My  soul  does  not  know 
fear,  nor  my  will  weakness.  The  forces  of  destiny  are 
leading  me.  If  it  is  written  that  I  shall  die  too  soon — 
and  I  know  it  is  so  —  my  death  shall  not  be  unworthy 
of  the  sight  of  the  gods.  Farewell.  I  bear  you  no 
anger,  because  now  to  me  you  are  as  one  dead  ! ' ' 


IX 

ABOVE  the  marble  portico  of  the  guest-house  o! 
Apollo,  built  for  the  poor,  for  pilgrims  and  the 
disabled,  ran  these  letters  in  Homeric  Greek  along  the 
pediment : 

**  Strangers  and  beggars  are  all  sent  by  Zeus, 
And  dear  to  them  is  the  little  we  give. *^  ^ 

The  Emperor  went  into  the  inner  court.  A  graceful 
Ionic  colonnade  ran  round  it.  The  hospice  had  form- 
erly been  a  palaestra  or  wrestling-ground.  It  was  a 
soft  and  sunny  afternoon,  before  sunset,  but  a  heavy 
atmosphere  came  to  the  portico  from  the  inner  rooms. 

There,  massed  together,  children  and  old  men  were 
crawling  about,  Christians  and  Pagans,  the  sound  and 
the  sick;  folk  disabled,  deformed,  enfeebled,  dropsical, 
consumptive  ;  folk  bearing  on  their  faces  the  stamp  of 
every  vice  and  everj^  form  of  suffering. 

A  half-naked  old  woman,  with  a  tanned  skin  like 
the  colour  of  dead  leaves,  was  rubbing  her  sore,  pock- 
marked back  against  the  pure  marble  of  a  pillar. 

In  the  middle  of  the  court  stood  a  statue  of  the 
Pythian  Apollo,  bow  in  hand,  quiver  on  shoulder.  At 
the  foot  of  the  statue  was  seated  a  wrinkled  monster 
who  seemed  neither  young  nor  old.  His  arms  were 
huddled  round  his  knees,  his  head  rested  on  one  side  ; 
and  swinging  himself  from  right  to  left  with  a  stupid 
air,  he  kept  declaiming  in  a  monotone — 
^  Odyssey,  xiv.  57,  58. 
294 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  295 

**  Jesus  Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  have  mercy  upon  us, 
the  lost,  lost,  lost  !  " 

At  last  the  principal  inspector,  Marcus  Ausonius, 
appeared,  pale  and  trembling — 

* '  Most  wise  and  merciful  Caesar,  will  you  not  deign 
to  come  into  my  house  ?  The  atmosphere  is  hurtful 
here  .  .  .  there  are  contagious  maladies.  ..." 

**  No,  I  am  not  afraid.     Are  you  the  inspector  ?  " 

Ausonius,  keeping  in  his  breath  in  order  not  to 
breathe  the  vitiated  air,  bowed  low. 

* '  Are  bread  and  wine  distributed  every  day  ?  ' ' 

*'  Yes,  as  you  have  ordered,  divine  Augustus    ..." 

''What  filth  !" 

*'  They  are  Galileans.  To  wash,  is  for  them  a  sin. 
It  's  impossible  to  make  them  take  baths." 

* '  Bring  me  the  account-books  ! ' '  ordered  Julian. 

The  inspector  fell  on  his  knees,  and  for  long  could 
not  utter  a  word.     Finally  he  faltered — 

''  Sire  .  .  .  everything  is  in  due  order,  .  .  .  but 
unfortunately  .  .  .  the  books  have  been  burnt.  ..." 

The  Emperor's  brow  clouded. 

At  that  moment,  cries  arose  from  the  crowd  of  sick 
persons — 

**  A  miracle!  A  miracle!  .  .  .  I^ook,  the  paralytic 
can  walk  !  " 

Julian  turned  round,  and  saw  a  tall  man,  wild  with 
joy,  stretching  out  his  hands  towards  him  with  a  look 
full  of  simple  faith. 

*'  I  believe  !  I  believe  !  "  cried  the  paralytic  ;  **  I 
believe  thou  art  no  man,  but  a  god  descended  upon 
earth.     Touch  me,  heal  me,  Caesar  !  " 

All  the  halt  and  maimed  were  shouting — 

"  A  miracle  !  Glory  to  Apollo  !  Glory  to  the 
Healer!" 


296  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  Come  to  me,  '*  called  the  sick,  ''say  a  word,  and  I 
shall  be  cured!  " 

Julian  turned,  and  looked  at  the  god  in  the  light  of 
sunset,  and  for  the  first  time  all  going  on  in  the  hospice 
seemed  to  him  a  sacrilege.  The  clear  eyes  of  the 
Olympian  should  look  down  no  more  on  these  mon- 
strosities. Julian  felt  a  wild  desire  to  purify  the  ancient 
palaestra,  to  rid  it  of  all  Pagan  and  Galilean  vermin,  tq 
sweep  out  the  whole  human  dunghill.  Oh,  had  Apollo 
lived  again,  how  his  eyes  would  have  lightened,  his 
arrows  flown  and  purged  the  place  of  the  paralytic  and 
infirm! 

Julian  left  the  hospice  of  Apollo  in  haste.  The  Em- 
peror had  understood  perfectly  that  his  information 
was  correct  and  that  the  principal  inspector  was  a 
peculator.  But  such  fatigue  and  disgust  rose  in  his 
heart  that  he  had  no  courage  to  push  further  his  inves- 
tigation of  the  rascality. 

It  was  late  when  he  returned  to  the  palace.  He 
gave  an  order  that  he  would  receive  no  one,  and  with- 
drew to  the  terrace  which  looked  out  on  the  Bosphorus. 

Previous  to  his  visit  to  the  guest-house,  the  whole  day 
had  worn  away  in  wearisome  details  of  business,  legal 
decisions,  and  the  audit  of  accounts.  A  great  number 
of  instances  of  peculation  had  been  brought  to  light, 
and  allowed  the  Emperor  to  see  that  even  his  best 
friends  were  deceiving  him.  All  these  philosophers, 
these  rhetoricians,  poets,  panegyrists,  were  robbing  the 
treasury,  and  robbing  it  just  as  much  as  had  the 
eunuchs  and  Christian  bishops  in  the  reign  of  Constan- 
tius.  Guest-houses,  alms-houses  for  philosophers,  inns 
of  Apollo  and  Aphrodite,  were  so  many  pretexts  for 
gain  by  the  cunning,  and  the  more  so  that  not  only  to 
Galileans,  but  also  to  Pagans  themselves,  these  institu- 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  297 

tions  seemed  a  fantastic  notion,  even  a  sacrilege,  on 
the  part  of  Caesar. 

Julian  felt  his  body  aching  under  ceaseless  and  profit- 
less fatigue.  Extinguishing  the  lamp,  he  lay  down 
upon  his  narrow  camp-bed. 

**  I  must  reflect  in  quiet,  "  he  said  to  himself,  gazing 
at  the  nocturnal  sky.  But  the  power  of  reflection  did 
not  come.  A  great  star  was  shining  in  the  darkened 
ether  and  Julian  through  half-closed  eyelids  looked  at 
it.     Coldly,  coldly,  the  star's  image  sank  into  his  heart. 


AT  Antioch  the  great,  the  capital  of  Syria,  not  far 
from  Syngon,  the  principal  street,  splendid  hot 
baths,  Thermce,  stood  just  at  the  meeting  of  four  roads. 

These  baths  were  fashionable  and  expensive. 
Crowds  of  clients  used  to  go  there  to  learn  the  last 
gossip  of  the  town.  Between  the  apodyterium,  the 
room  for  undressing,  and  iho,  frigidarium,  or  room  for 
cooling  and  rest,  lay  a  fine  hall  with  mosaic  floor  and 
marble  walls;  this  was  the  hot-air  bath,  the  sudatorium 
or  laconicum. 

From  adjoining  halls  came  laughs  of  the  bathers  and 
the  noise  of  powerful  jets  of  water  falling  into  huge 
basins.  Naked  slaves  ran  hither  and  thither,  jostling 
one  another  and  opening  jars  of  perfume. 

At  Antioch  bathing  was  considered  neither  as  an 
amusement  nor  as  a  necessity,  but  as  the  principal 
charm  and  most  varied  art  of  life.  The  capital  of  Syria 
was  moreover  renowned,  the  world  over,  for  the  abund- 
ance, the  exquisite  taste,  and  the  purity  of  its  waters. 
A  full  bath  or  a  full  bucket  seemed  empty,  so  trans- 
parent were  the  streams  from  the  aqueducts  of  Antioch. 

Through  the  warm  and  milky  vapours  of  the  suda- 
torium could  be  caught  glimpses  of  the  red  and  naked 
bodies  of  notable  citizens.  Some  were  half-reclining, 
others  seated.  Some  were  being  rubbed  over  with 
oil ;  all,  with  the  utmost  solemnity,  were  talking  to- 
gether, while  they  perspired.  The  beauty  of  a  pair 
of  ancient    statues,    an  Antinous    and    an    Adonis, 

298 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  299 

placed  in  niches  overhead,  threw  into  still  greater 
prominence  the  hideousness  of  the  living. 

A  fat  old  man  came  out  with  a  majestic,  albeit  mis- 
shapen, body.  He  was  the  merchant  Bouzaris,  whose 
finger  and  thumb  controlled  the  whole  of  the  corn- 
markets  of  Antioch.  A  sprightly  young  man  was  re- 
spectfully supporting  him  under  the  arm.  Although 
both  were  naked,  it  was  easy  to  distinguish  at  a  glance 
which  was  patron  and  which  client. 

**  Let  the  vapour  be  turned  on  me,"  commanded 
Bouzaris,  in  his  hoarse  voice.  From  the  profundity  of 
his  tones  could  be  calculated  the  prodigious  number  of 
millions  which  he  commanded  on  the  market. 

Two  metal  taps  were  turned,  and  the  warm  steam, 
escaping  with  a  hiss  from  the  vent-hole,  enveloped  the 
figure  of  the  merchant  in  thick  mist.  He  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  white  cloud,  like  some  squat  and  mon- 
strous god  in  process  of  apotheosis,  tunding  his  red  and 
fleshy  belly  like  a  drum. 

Sitting  hard  by  in  a  prominent  place  was  Marcus 
Ausonius,  the  former  inspector  of  the  guest-house. 
Huddled  up,  crouching  on  his  heels  by  the  massive 
side  of  the  merchant,  the  meagre  little  man  resembled 
a  featherless  and  shivering  chicken. 

Julius  Mauricus,  the  scoffer,  was  there,  trying  to 
make  his  dry  nervous  body  perspire.  He  was  lean  as 
a  stick. 

Garguillus,  too,  was  stretched  on  the  mosaic  floor, 
still  well-fed,  soft  as  gelatine,  enormous  in  bulk  as  the 
carcass  of  a  slain  boar.  A  Paphlagonian  slave,  pant- 
ing under  the  protracted  effort,  was  scrubbing  the 
blubber  of  his  back  with  a  piece  of  damp  cloth  ;  while 
the  now  wealthy  poet,  Publius  Porphyrins,  was  staring 
in  a  melancholy  manner  at  his  own  gouty  legs. 


300  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

**  Do  you  know,  my  friends?"  he  asked,  "  about 
the  letter  from  the  white  bulls  to  the  Roman  Kmperor  ?" 

''No.     Tell  it." 

"  One  line  only  :  '  Conquer  Persia,  and  we  are 
doomed!'  " 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  What  more  was  there  to  say  ?  " 

Undulations  of  laughter  heaved  the  body  of  Gar- 
guillus. 

"  By  Pallas,  it  's  telling  and  to  the  point  !  If  the 
Emperor  comes  back  in  triumph  from  Persia,  he  '11 
offer  in  sacrifice  to  the  Olympians  such  masses  of  white 
bulls  that  these  animals  will  get  rarer  than  the  bull 
Apis!  .  .  .  Slave  !  Rub  the  small  of  my  back,  the 
small  of  my  back  !  .  .  .  harder,  harder  !  " 

And,  in  turning  over,  his  body  made  the  sound, 
against  the  mosaic  floor,  of  a  great  bundle  of  wet  linen 
^flopped  on  the  ground. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  Julius,  "  they  say  from 
the  Isle  of  Taprobane,  in  the  Indies,  they  're  sending 
great  numbers  of  very  rare  white  birds  and  big  wild 
swans  from  Scythia.  All  that  for  the  gods  !  The 
Roman  Emperor  is  fattening  the  Olympians.  It  's 
true  they  have  had  time  to  get  hungry  since  the  days 
of  Constantine  !  " 

' '  The  gods  guzzle  while  we  starve  ! ' '  cried  Gar- 
guillus.  "  It  's  now  three  days  since  one  has  been  able 
to  get  a  decent  Colchis  pheasant  in  the  market,  or  even 
a  tolerably  eatable  fish." 

"  He  's  a  greenhorn  and  an  innocent  !  "  remarked 
the  corn-merchant. 

Everybody  turned  round  respectfully. 

"  A  greenhorn,  I  tell  you!  "  resumed  Bouzaris. 
'*  I  say  that  if  you  pinched  the  nose  of  your  Roman 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  30t 

Caesar  you  'd  find  nothing  but  milk  in  him  like  a  babe 
of  two  weeks  !  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  lower  the  price  of 
bread  ;  forbade  us  to  sell  it  at  the  price  we  set  on  it  ! 
And  so  he  brought  four  hundred  thousand  measures  of 
wheat  from  Egypt.  .  .   ." 

*  *  Well,  did  you  lower  the  price  ?  ' ' 

**  Listen  !  I  stirred  up  the  wheat- sellers.  We 
closed  the  shops.  Better  let  our  grain  rot  than  give 
in.  So  the  people  ate  the  Egyptian  corn.  We  won't 
give  him  ours.     He  's  made  his  cake,  let  him  eat  it  !  '* 

Bouzaris  triumphantly  clapped  his  palms  on  his 
belly. 

'*  That 's  enough  steam  !    Now  pour  !  "  ordered 
the  merchant. 

And  the  handsome  curly-headed  slave,  who  re- 
sembled Antinous,  unsealed  over  his  head  a  slender 
amphora  containing  the  costliest  Arabian  cassia.  The 
aromatics  flowed  over  the  red  sweating  body.  Bou- 
zaris spread  the  thick  scented  drops  over  himself  with 
satisfaction,  and  then  wiped  his  gross  fingers  in  the 
golden  hair  of  the  slave  standing  with  bowed  head 
before  him. 

"  Your  excellency  has  quite  rightly  observed  that 
the  Emperor  was  nothing  more  than  a  greenhorn," 
said  the  parasite  friend,  with  a  profound  bow.  **  He 
has  recently  published  a  pamphlet  aimed  at  the  inhabit- 
ants of  Antioch  and  entitled,  The  Beard-hater,  in 
which,  in  response  to  the  insults  of  the  populace,  he 
says  in  effect — '  You  laugh  at  my  beard  and  my  coarse- 
ness of  manners.  Laugh  as  much  as  you  please  !  I, 
too,  laugh  at  myself.  But  I  don't  want  trials,  inform- 
ers, prisons,  or  punishments  !  '  Now  is  that  worthy 
of  a  Roman  Emperor  ?     Is  it  dignified  ?  " 

"  The  Caesar  Constantius  of  pious   memory,"    de- 


302  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

clared  Bouzaris,  '*  can't  be  spoken  of  in  the  same 
breath  with  Julian  !  In  his  clothes,  in  his  bearing,  one 
could  see  at  once  he  was  a  Caesar.  But  this  one,  God 
forgive  me,  is  only  an  abortion  of  the  gods,  a  lame 
monkey,  a  bandy-legged  bear  who  hangs  about  the 
streets  unshaven,  uncombed,  unwashed,  with  stains  of 
ink  on  his  fingers.  Why  it  makes  me  sick  to  see  him  ! 
.  .  .  Books,  learning,  philosophy.  .  .  .  Ah,  we  '11 
make  you  pay  dear  for  all  that  !  A  ruler  must  n't 
laugh  with  his  people  !  He  must  keep  them  in  hand. 
Once  let  the  people  slip,  and  he  '11  never  get  a  grip 
on  them  again.  ..." 

Then  Marcus  Ausonius,  who  up  to  that  time  had 
been  mute,  murmured  thoughtfully  — 

' '  Well,  one  can  forgive  most  things,  but  why  does 
he  take  away  the  last  remaining  joy  in  life — the  circus, 
and  the  fights  of  gladiators  ?  My  friends,  the  sight  of 
blood  causes,  and  will  always  cause,  an  inexplicable 
pleasure  to  man.  ...  'T  is  a  sacred  and  mysterious 
enjoyment.  There  's  no  gaiety  without  bloodshed,  no 
greatness  on  the  earth.  The  smell  of  blood  is  the  smell 
of  Rome  !" 

The  last  scion  of  the  Ausonii  glanced  naively  round 
at  his  hearers.  Sometimes  he  looked  like  a  boy, 
sometimes  like  an  old  man.  The  swollen  torso  of 
Garguillus  heaved  on  the  floor.  Raising  his  head,  he 
glanced  at  Ausonius. 

"  Neatly  put.  Smell  of  blood,  smell  of  Rome  !  .  .  . 
Go  on,  Marcus,  you  're  inspired  to-day.  ..." 

"  I  say  what  I  feel,  my  dear  fellows.  Blood  is  so 
pleasant  to  man  that  even  the  Christians  can't  do  with- 
out it.  They  want  to  purify  the  world  through  blood- 
shed. Julian  is  making  a  great  mistake.  In  taking 
away  the  circus  from  the  people  he  's  robbing  them  of 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  303 

their  chief  enjoyment,  which  is  naturally  sanguinary. 
The  populace  would  have  pardoned  almost  anything  ; 
but  it  won't  pardon  that !  " 

Marcus  pronounced  the  last  words  solemnly,  and 
then  suddenly  slipped  a  hand  behind  his  back  and  his 
face  beamed. 

*'  Are  you  perspiring  !  "  asked  Garguillus. 

**  Yes!  "  answered  Ausonius,  with  a  rapturous  smile. 
'*  Rub,  slave,  rub  !  " 

He  lay  down  on  the  couch.  The  bath-slave  fell  to 
kneading  the  poor  anaemic  limbs,  which  had  a  deadly 
bluish  tint. 

From  their  porphyry  niches  the  figures  of  ancient 
time  looked  down  with  scorn  through  the  milky 
smoke. 

Meanwhile  at  the  cross-roads,  outside  the  baths,  a 
crowd  was  collecting. 

At  night  Antioch  glittered  with  thousands  of  lights, 
especially  along  the  Syngon,  which  ran  through  the 
city  for  a  distance  of  twenty-six  stadia,  with  porticoes 
and  colonnades  thronged  with  shops  throughout  its 
length. 

In  the  crowd,  pleasantries  about  the  Emperor  ran 
from  mouth  to  mouth.  Street  boys  rushed  about  from 
group  to  group  shouting  satirical  ditties.  An  old 
woman  caught  one  of  the  little  vagabonds,  and,  lifting 
his  shirt,  administered  sound  correction  with  the  sole 
of  her  sandal. 

''  Take  that !  and  that  !  to  teach  you  to  sing  such 
disgraceful  things  !  " 

The  urchin  uttered  piercing  squeals. 

Another,  clambering  on  the  back  of  a  comrade,  drew 
on  the  white  wall  with  a  piece  of  coal  a  long-bearded 
goat,  crowned  with  the  Imperial  diadem,  while  a  third 


304  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

wrote  uudemeath  in  big  letters,  * '  This  is  the  impious 
Julian  I "  and  trjdng  to  make  his  voice  formidatle 
yelled — 

**  The  butcher  comes 
With  a  big,  big  knife ! " 

An  old  man  in  the  long  black  ecclesiastical  habit 
passing  by,  halted,  listened  to  the  boy,  and  cast  up  hia 
eyes  to  heaven — 

*'  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  pro- 
ceedeth  wisdom  !  Were  we  not  better  off  under  Cappa 
and  KM?" 

**  What  do  you  mean  by  Cappa  and  Khi  ?  " 

"Don't  you  understand?  The  Greek  letter  Cappa 
(K)  begins  the  name  of  Constantius,  and  Khi  {X)  is 
the  initial  of  '  Christ.  *  I  mean  by  that,  that  Constan- 
tius and  Christ  did  no  harm  to  the  inhabitants  of 
An  tioch  while  the  philosophers  ..." 

**  True,  true  !  One  was  better  off  under  Cappa  and 
Khi!'' 

A  drunken  man,  overhearing  this  colloquy,  hawked 
the  saying  about  the  streets,  and  the  pleasantry  circu- 
lated through  Antioch,  and  being  manifestly  absurd 
tickled  the  popular  fancy. 

A  scene  of  still  greater  animation  might  have  been 
witnessed  in  the  tavern  situated  opposite  the  baths. 
This  tavern  belonged  to  the  Armenian  Syrax,  who  had 
long  ago  transferred  his  commercial  undertakings  from 
Caesarea  to  Antioch.  From  bulging  wine-skins  and 
enormous  jars,  wine  was  pouring  freely  into  tin  cups. 
Here,  as  everywhere,  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
Emperor's  doings. 

The  little  Syrian  soldier  Strombix,  the  same  who 
had  taken  part  in  Julian's  campaign  against  the  bar- 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  305 

barians  in  Gaul,  was  distinguishing  himself  by  special 
eloquence.  By  his  side  lolled  the  faithful  giant,  his 
friend,  the  Sarmatian,  Aragaris.  Strombix  felt  as 
happy  as  a  fish  in  water ;  he  loved  risings  and  re- 
bellions better  than  anything  in  the  world. 

He  was  preparing  to  make  a  speech.  An  old  rag- 
picker had  just  brought  in  a  sensational  piece  of  news — 

*'We  're  all  doomed!  .  .  .  The  I^ord's  hand  is 
heavy  on  us.  .  .  .  Yesterday  a  neighbour  of  mine 
told  me  something  which  at  first  I  refused  to  believe  !" 

"Tell  us,  good  woman!'* 

**  Well,  it  was  at  Gaza.  The  Pagans  seized  a  con- 
vent. They  made  the  nuns  come  out.  They  tied 
them  to  gallows  in  the  market-place,  beat  'em  to  death, 
and  after  rolling  their  warm  bodies,  all  hacked  to 
pieces,  in  grains  of  barley,  threw  'em  to  the  swine  ! " 

**  I  saw  myself,  "  added  a  young  weaver,  **  a  Pagan  at 
Hieropolis,  who  was  eating  the  liver  of  a  deacon  !  '* 

"What  an  abomination!'*  murmured  the  auditors 
crossing  themselves. 

With  the  help  of  Aragaris,  Strombix  clambered  on 
to  a  table,  which  was  still  sticky  with  the  spilth  of 
wine,  and  striking  an  oratorical  attitude,  addressed  the 
crowd,  while  Aragaris  proudly  contemplated  his 
friend. 

"Citizens,  "  began  Strombix  ;  "  how  long  shall  we 
wait  before  we  rebel?  Don't  you  know  that  Julian 
has  sworn,  if  he  returns  a  conqueror  firom  Persia,  to 
gather  together  the  holy  defenders  of  the  Church  and 
throw  them  to  beasts  in  the  amphitheatre  ?  To  turn  the 
porticoes  of  basilicas  into  granaries,  and  the  churches 
into  stables  .  .  .  ** 

A  hump-backed  old  man,  livid  with  fear,  tumbled 
over  on  the  tavern  floor.    It  was  the  husband  of  the 


3o6  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

rag-picker,  himself  a  glass-blower.  Rising,  he  slapped 
his  thigh  despairingly,  stared  at  the  company,  and 
faltered — 

"  Ah,  what  a  situation  !  .  .  .  And  there  are  two 
hundred  corpses  in  the  wells  and  the  aqueducts  !  " 

''  Where  ?    What  corpses  ?  " 

*'Hush!  .  .  .  Hush !"  murmured  the  glass-blower. 
'  *  They  say  that  the  renegade  has  long  taken  his  augu- 
ries from  the  intestines  of  living  men  ;  and  all  this  for 
his  war  against  the  Persians  and  his  victory  over  the 
Christians  !  " 

Overcome  with  satisfaction  he  muttered  under  his 
breath — 

"  Why,  in  the  cellars  of  the  palace  at  Antioch 
they  've  discovered  chests  full  of  human  bones  .  .  . 
and  in  the  city  of  Karra,  near  Kdessa,  the  Christians 
have  found,  in  a  subterranean  temple,  the  corpse  of  a 
woman  hanging  by  her  hair  with  her  body  slit  open. 

.  .  .    Julian  wanted  to  inspect  the  liver  of  an  infant 
for  his  cursed  war. ' ' 

**  Eh  ?  Gluturius!  Is  it  true  that  human  bones  are 
found  in  the  sewers  ?  You  ought  to  know  ! ' '  said  a 
shoemaker,  a  confirmed  sceptic. 

Gluturius,  the  scavenger,  who  stood  near  the  door, 
not  venturing  in  because  he  smelt  badly,  being  thus 
addressed,  began,  according  to  his  custom,  to  smile 
and  to  blink  his  inflamed  eyelids  : 

'  *  No,  worthy  friends, ' '  he  answered  humbly.  * '  New- 
born infants  are  sometimes  found  there,  or  skeletons 
of  asses  and  camels,  but  I  never  yet  saw  a  corpse  of 
man  or  woman." 

When  Strombix  resumed  his  speech,  the  scavenger 
listened  religiously,  rubbing  his  bare  leg  against  the 
door  post. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  307 

'*  Brother  men,"  cried  the  orator,  with  fiery  indigo 
nation,  "  let  us  be  revenged  !  I,et  us  die  like  ancient 
Romans  !  " 

"  No  use  bursting  j/^w^  lungs, "  grumbled  the  shoe- 
maker. *'  When  we  get  to  that  stage,  you  '11  be  the 
first  to  turn  tail  and  let  the  others  die  !  ' ' 

**  You  're  a  set  of  cowards,"  chimed  in  a  painted 
woman,  dressed  in  a  poor  and  tawdry  dress.  She  was 
a  street-walker,  nicknamed  by  her  admirers  the  She- 
wolf.  *'  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on  wrathfully, 
"  what  the  holy  martyrs  Macedonius,  Theodulus,  and 
Tertian  replied  to  their  executioners  ?  ' ' 

"  No,  She- wolf,  tell  us." 

"  Well,  I  've  heard.  At  Myrrha,  in  Phrygia,  three 
young  men,  Macedonius,  Theodulus,  and  Tertian,  had 
burst  into  a  Greek  temple  by  night,  and  smashed  the 
idols  to  the  glory  of  God.  The  proconsul  Amachius 
had  them  seized,  stretched  them  on  dripping-pans,  and 
ordered  fires  to  be  lighted  under  them.  The  three 
martyrs  said  :  *  If  you  want  to  taste  cooked  flesh, 
Amachius,  turn  us  over  on  the  other  side,  that  we  may 
not  be  served  up  to  you  half-cooked  ! '  and  all  three 
laughed  and  spat  in  the  face  of  the  proconsul.  And 
everybody  saw  an  angel  come  down  out  of  heaven 
with  three  crowns  !  Vou  would  n't  have  spoken  so  ! 
You  're  too  fearful  for  your  skins  ...  It  's  heart- 
breaking, just  to  look  at  you  !  " 

The  She- wolf  turned  away  in  disgust. 

Cries  rose  from  the  street. 

"  Perhaps  they  're  breaking  up  idols?  "  suggested 
the  shoemaker  pleasantly. 

*  *  Forward,  citizens  !  Follow  me  !  "  shouted  Strom- 
bix,  waving  his  arms  ;  but  he  slipped  on  the  table,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  not  Aragaris  caught  him. 


3o8  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Everybody  rushed  to  the  door.  An  enormous  crowd 
was  advancing  down  the  principal  street  and,  filling  the 
narrow  cross-roads,  brought  up  before  the  baths. 

* '  Old  Pamva !  Old  Pamva  !  ' '  the  idlers  were  shout- 
ing. "  He  's  come  from  the  desert  to  help  the  people; 
to  pull  down  the  great,  and  to  save  the  humble  and 
poor  !  ** 


XI 


THE  old  man  had  a  coarse  face,  with  high  cheek- 
bones, bearded  to  the  eyes.  A  patched  piece  of 
sacking  served  him  as  inner  robe,  and  a  hooded  sheep's 
skin  as  cloak  or  chlamys.  For  twenty  years,  Pamva 
had  never  washed  himself,  considering  cleanliness  sin- 
ful, and  believing  that  a  special  fiend  presided  over 
any  acts  of  care  for  the  body.  He  dwelt  in  a  fearful 
desert,  the  Berean,  round  Chalybon,  to  the  east  of 
Antioch,  where  serpents  and  scorpions  swarmed  at  the 
bottom  of  the  arid  water-courses.  His  lodging  was  the 
deep  sandy  hollow  of  a  dried-up  well,  called  coubba  in 
Syriac,  where  he  used  to  feed  himself  on  five  stalks  a 
day  of  a  sweet  and  flowery  kind  of  reed.  He  had 
nearly  died  of  starvation.  His  disciples  descended  to 
feed  him  by  means  of  ropes.  Then,  during  seven 
years,  he  lived  on  a  half-measure  of  boiled  lentils. 
His  sight  grew  feeble  ;  his  skin  became  leprous  and 
scurvy  ;  he  therefore  added  a  little  oil  to  his  lentils, 
and  accused  himself  of  worship  of  the  belly. 

Pamva,  learning  from  his  disciples  that  the  Emperor 
Julian,  the  fierce  Anti-Christ,  was  persecuting  the 
Christians,  left  his  retreat  and  came  to  Antioch  to 
strengthen  weak-kneed  believers — 

"  lyisten  !  listen  !  .  .  .  he  's  going  to  speak." 
Pamva  climbed  the  staircase  of  the  baths  and  halted 
on  a  broad  landing.  His  eyes  glittered  with  con- 
densed ire.  He  stretched  out  his  arms,  pointing  out 
to  the  people  palaces,  pagan  temples,  baths,  shops, 
courts  of  justice,  all  the  monuments  of  Antioch. 

309 


3IO  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

**  Not  a  stone  of  these  shall  remain  !  All  shall 
crumble  and  disappear.  The  holy  fire  shall  burn  up 
the  universe  The  heavens,  like  a  smouldering  palace, 
shall  sink  away  !  That  shall  be  the  terrible  judgment 
of  Christ,  the  unimaginable  spectacle.  Whither  shall 
I  turn  mine  eyes,  and  what  shall  I  wonder  at,  if  it  be 
not  the  groaning  of  kings,  cast  down  into  darkness  ? 
If  it  be  not  the  terror  of  Aphrodite,  the  goddess  of  love, 
shivering  in  her  nakedness  before  the  Crucified  ?  If 
it  be  not  the  flight  of  Jupiter,  and  all  the  Olympians, 
before  the  thunders  of  the  Most  High  ?  .  .  .  Triumph, 
ye  martyrs,  and  rejoice,  ye  persecuted  !  See  your 
judges,  the  Roman  proconsuls,  seized  by  more  terrible 
flames  than  yours.  Nor  shall  the  syllogisms  of  Aris- 
totle, nor  the  demonstrations  of  Plato  save  you,  philo- 
sophers, hurled  into  hell!  And,  on  that  stage,  their 
actors  shall  roar,  as  the  heroes  of  Sophocles  and 
^schylus  never  roared  before  !  And  their  rope- 
dancers,  trust,  me,  shall  dance  a  quicker  step  in  that 
fire!  And  we,  the  poor  and  ignorant,  shall  rejoice  and 
say  to  the  strong,  wise,  and  the  haughty :  Behold  the 
Crucified,  the  son  of  the  carpenter  and  the  work- 
woman, the  King  of  Judaea,  crowned  in  purple  and 
thorns  !  Behold  the  Sabbath-breaker,  the  Samaritan 
woman  possessed  of  the  devil  !  See  Him,  whom  you 
led  bound  with  cords  into  your  praetorium.  Him  whose 
thirst  you  quenched  with  vinegar  and  hyssop  !  And 
we  shall  hear  in  answer  weepings  and  gnashings  of 
teeth.  We  shall  laugh,  our  hearts  overflowing  with 
joy  !     Come,  come,  come.  Lord  Jesus  !  " 

Gluturius,  the  cleanser  of  sewers,  fell  on  his  knees, 
and  blinking  his  inflamed  eyelids  as  if  he  saw  Christ 
descending,  stretched  out  his  arms.  The  metal-founder 
clenched  his  fists,  collected  his  forces  like  a  bull  ready 


The  Death  of  the  Gods         3^1 

to  charge.  And  the  livid-faced  weaver,  trembling  in 
all  his  limbs,  with  an  amazed  smile  was  murmuring, 
''  Lord,  let  me,  too,  suffer!  " 

The  animal  faces  of  beggars  and  sharpers  expressed 
the  mischievous  triumph  of  the  weak  over  the  strong  ; 
of  slaves  over  their  masters.  The  She-wolf  grinned  in 
silence,  and  an  insatiable  thirst  for  vengeance  twinkled 
in  her  drunken  eyes. 

Suddenly,  the  jingle  of  weapons  and  the  heavy  step 
of  horses.  The  Roman  legionaries  of  the  night-watch 
wheeled  round  the  corner  of  the  road.  At  their  head 
strode  the  prefect,  Sallustius  Secundus,  a  man  with 
aquiline  nose,  open  face,  and  a  look  of  calmness  and 
kindly  intelligence.  He  wore  the  senatorial  laticlave, 
and  gave  an  impression  of  self-confidence  and  patrician 
nobleness.  Above  the  distant  Pantheon,  erected  by 
Antiochus  Seleucus,  slowly  arose  the  great  reddish 
moon,  and  its  rays  were  glittering  on  shields  and 
breastplates — 

"  Disperse,  citizens!  "  said  Sallustius,  addressing  the 
crowd.  * '  By  order  of  Augustus  crowds  are  forbidden 
in  the  streets  of  Antioch  by  night. ' ' 

The  populace  groaned  and  murmured.     Street-boys 
whistled,  and  one  audacious  voice  sang  — 
"  Good-bye  to  the  white  cocks  ! 
Good-bye  to  the  white  ox  ! 
For  Julian  knocks  them  on  the  head 
To  feed  his  devils  and  the  dead  !  " 

There  was  a  threatening  clash  of  arms.  The  legion- 
aries unsheathed  their  swords  and  prepared  to  charge. 
Old  Pamva  struck  the  marble  flags  with  his  staff",  and 
shouted — 

*'  Hail,  gallant  army  of  Satan  !  Hail,  wise  Roman 
dignitary!    You  '11  probably  remember  the  time  when 


312  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

you  burned  us,  wlien  you  taught  us  philosophy,  and  we 
prayed  God  to  save  your  lost  souls !  Welcome  to 
you !" 

The  legionaries  gripped  their  swords,  but  the  prefect 
with  a  gesture  stopped  them.  He  saw  that  the  crowd 
was  in  his  power. 

"What  are  you  threatening  us  with,  blockhead?" 
asked  Pamva,  addressing  himself  to  Sallustius.  *  ''What 
can  you  do?  All  we  want  for  vengeance  is  a  black 
night  and  two  or  three  torches.  You  fear  the  Ale- 
manni  and  the  Persians.  We  are  more  terrible  than 
they.  We  are  everywhere  in  the  midst  of  you,  inviol- 
able, innumerable !  We  have  no  boundaries,  no  father- 
land; we  recognise  but  one  republic,  the  universal 
republic  !  Born  but  yesterday,  already  we  are  filling 
the  world,  filling  your  cities,  your  fortresses,  your 
islands,  city  councils,  camps,  palaces,  senates,  forums ! 
We  leave  you  your  temples !  .  .  .  And  but  for  our 
humility,  our  fraternity,  choosing  rather  to  die  than 
to  slay,  we  should  have  blotted  you  out.  .  .  . 

*'We  want  neither  sword  nor  fire!  So  many  are 
we,  that  if  we  withdrew,  you  would  perish.  Your  cities 
would  become  solitudes,  you  would  be  frightened  at 
your  own  loneliness,  at  the  silence  of  the  universe  ! 
All  life  would  stop,  at  that  death-touch  !  Remember 
the  Roman  Empire  exists  only  on  sufferance,  sustained 
by  the  mercy  of  us  Christians  !  '* 

All  eyes  being  fixed  on  Pamva  no  one  perceived  a 
man  clothed  in  the  old  chlamys  of  a  wandering  philo- 
sopher, with  a  lean  yellow  face,  curling  hair,  and  long 
black  beard,  quickly  coming  through  the  lines  of 
legionaries,  who  respectfully  made  way  for  him.  He 
was  followed  by  a  few  companions,  and,  leaning  to« 
Wards  Sallustius,  whispered — 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  313 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for?  '* 

"They  will  perhaps  disperse  of  themselves, '*  re- 
sponded Sallustius.  "  The  Galileans  have  already  too 
many  martyrs  for  us  to  make  any  more  of  them.  They 
fly  towards  death  as  bees  to  honey  ! ' ' 

But  the  man  in  the  philosopher* s  robe  advanced 
and  cried  out  with  a  distinct  voice,  like  a  captain 
accustomed  to  command — 

"  Scatter  the  crowd.    Seize  the  ringleaders  !  '* 

Everybody  wheeled  round,  and  in  alarm  shouted^ 

**  Augustus  !  Augustus  Julian  !  '* 

The  soldiers  charged  with  drawn  swords.  The  old 
rag-picker  was  knocked  down,  struggling  and  shriek- 
ing under  the  feet  of  the  legionaries.  Many  fled,  and 
Strombix  was  the  first  to  take  advantage  of  the  general 
confusion.  Stones  hurtled  through  the  air.  The 
metal-founder,  defending  old  Pamva,  hurled  a  large 
jagged  flint  at  a  legionary.  It  struck  the  She-wolf, 
who  fell  with  a  slight  cry,  covered  with  blood,  and 
convinced  that  she  was  dying  a  martyr. 

A  legionary  seized  Gluturius ;  but  the  sewer-cleaner 
gave  himself  up  so  readily  (the  prospect  of  becoming 
an  admired  martyr  appearing  so  enviable  in  comparison 
with  his  present  occupation),  and  his  rags  gave  off" such 
a  stink,  that  the  disgusted  soldier  immediately  released 
his  prisoner. 

In  the  midst  of  the  crowd  there  was  a  market- 
gardener  who  had  chanced  by,  leading  an  ass  laden 
with  cabbages.  Mouth  agape,  he  had  listened  to  old 
Pamva  from  beginning  to  end.  Noticing  the  danger, 
he  now  tried  to  flee,  but  his  ass  starkly  refused.  In 
vain  was  the  beast  belaboured.  Buttressed  against  his 
forefeet,  with  ears  lowered  and  tail  lifted,  it  uttered  a 
deafening  series  of  brays,  drowning  in  its  triumphant 


314  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

stupidity  the  death-rattle  of  the  dying,  the  oaths  of  the 
soldiery,  and  the  prayers  of  Galileans. 

Oribazius,  who  was  among  the  companions  of  Julian, 
came  up  to  the  Kmperor — 

"  Julian,  what  are  you  doing  ?  Is  it  worthy  of  your 
wisdom  ?  .  .  ." 

The  E^mperor  cast  on  him  a  stern  look,  and  Oribazius 
was  silent,  not  daring  to  finish  his  protest. 

In  the  last  few  months  Julian  had  not  only  changed 
but  grown  old.  His  worn  face  had  the  sad  and  terrible 
expression  of  those  gnawed  by  some  long  and  incurable 
malady,  or  absorbed  in  some  fixed  idea  akin  to  mad- 
ness. His  powerful  hands  were  unconsciously  tearing 
to  pieces  a  roll  of  papyrus.  At  last  he  said  in  a  deep 
voice,  with  eyes  kept  steadily  on  Oribazius — 

' '  Away  !  I  know  what  I  am  doing.  .  .  .  With 
these  scoundrels  who  have  no  faith  in  the  gods,  one 
cannot  deal  as  with  human  beings.  They  must  be  de- 
stroyed like  wild  beasts.  And  for  the  matter  of  that, 
what  harm  would  be  done  if  a  dozen  Galileans  were 
slain  by  the  hand  of  the  Hellenists  ?  ' ' 

Oribazius  mused — 

'*  How  like  he  is  now,  in  his  fury,  to  his  cousin 
Constantius  !  " 

Julian  spoke  to  the  crowd,  and  his  voice  appeared  to 
himself  even  strange  and  terrible — 

**  By  the  grace  of  the  gods  I  am  still  Emperor  ! 
Galileans,  obey  !  You  may  mock  at  my  beard  and 
clothes,  but  not  at  the  Roman  law.  .  .  .  Remember, 
I  am  punishing  you  for  rebellion  and  not  for  religion. 
Chain  that  rascal  !  " 

With  a  shaking  hand  he  pointed  to  Pamva,  who 
was  promptly  seized  by  two  fair-haired  Batavians. 

"  Thou  liest,  atheist!  "  shouted  Pamva  triumphantly. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  315 

*  You  are  punishing  us  for  our  faith.  Why  do  you 
not  pardon  me,  as  you  did  Maris  the  blind  Chalce- 
donian  ?  Where  is  now  your  philosophy  ?  Have  the 
times  changed  ?  Have  you  overshot  your  mark  ? 
Brothers,  fear  not  the  Roman  Caesar,  but  the  Almighty 
God  !  " 

The  crowd  gave  up  all  idea  of  flight.  All  were  in- 
fected by  the  fever  of  martyrdom.  The  Batavians  and 
the  Celts  were  startled  by  the  sight  of  a  mob  rushing 
joyfully  on  death.  Even  children  threw  themseves  on 
the  swords  and  lances.  Julian  wished  to  stop  the  mas- 
sacre. He  was  too  late  ;  the  bees  were  making  for  the 
honey.     He  could  only  exclaim,  in  scorn  and  despair — 

"  Unhappy  people  !  If  life  weighs  on  you,  is  it  so 
difficult  for  you  to  shorten  it  for  yourselves  ?  " 

And  Pamva  in  bonds,  lifted  by  sinewy  arms,  retorted 
with  joy — 

*'  Exterminate  us,  Roman,  we  shall  multiply  the 
more  !  The  dungeon  is  our  liberty  ;  weakness,  our 
strength  :  death,  our  victory  !  " 


xn 

AT  about  five  miles  from  Antioch,  up  the  course  of 
the  river  Orontes,  stood  the  celebrated  wood  of 
Daphne,  consecrated  to  Apollo.  Therein  a  temple  had 
been  built,  where  every  year  the  praises  of  the  Sun-god 
were  celebrated. 

Julian,  without  saying  anything  of  his  intention, 
quitted  Antioch  at  the  break  of  day.  He  wished  U 
ascertain  for  himself  whether  the  inhabitants  remem- 
bered the  ancient  sacred  feast.  All  along  the  road  he 
mused  of  the  solemnity,  hoping  to  see  lads  and  virgins 
going  up  the  steps  of  the  temple,  clad  in  white  as  a 
symbol  of  purity  and  youth,  the  crowd  of  the  faithful, 
the  choirs,  and  the  smoke  of  incense. 

The  road  was  difficult;  from  the  rocky  Berean  hills 
a  gusty  burning  wind  came  down.  The  atmosphere 
was  laden  with  the  bitter  smell  of  burnt  wood,  and 
thick  with  a  bluish  fog  which  spread  itself  over  the 
deep  gorge  of  Mount  Kazia.  Harassing  dust  filled 
eyes  and  throat,  and  crackled  between  the  teeth  of  the 
traveller.  The  very  sun  through  the  smoky  vapour 
seemed  red  and  sickly.  But  hardly  had  the  Kmperor 
penetrated  into  the  wood  of  Daphne  than  fragrant  cool- 
ness surrounded  him.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
such  a  corner  of  Paradise  could  be  found  at  a  few  paces 
from  the  scorching  road.  The  wood  was  twenty-four 
stadia  in  circumference,  and  perpetual  twilight  reigned 
in  its  almost  impenetrable  alleys  of  gigantic  laurels, 
planted  centuries  before.     The  Emperor  was  surprised 

316 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  Z17 

at  the  solitariness  of  the  wood — no  worshippers,  no 
victims,  no  incense,  nor  any  preparation  for  the  solemn 
feast-day.  Thinking  that  the  people  must  be  assembled 
near  the  temple,  he  pushed  on  farther.  At  every  step 
the  wood  became  more  lonely.  It  was  as  untroubled 
by  any  sound  as  an  abandoned  cemetery.  Birds  were 
few,  the  shadow  of  the  laurel-grove  being  too  thick, 
and  no  song  of  theirs  was  heard.  A  grasshopper 
began  his  shrill  cry  in  the  grass,  and  quickly  ceased, 
as  if  startled  at  his  own  voice.  Insects  alone  were 
humming  faintly  in  a  slender  ray  of  sunlight,  but 
ventured  not  to  quit  its  beam  for  the  neighbouring 
gloom.  Sometimes  Julian  pushed  his  path  along  wider 
alleys,  bordered  with  titanic  walls  of  weird  cypress, 
casting  shade  dark  as  a  moonless  night.  Here  and 
there  subterranean  waters  made  the  moss  spongy. 
Streams  ran  everywhere,  chill  as  melted  snow,  but 
silently,  with  no  tinkling  ripples,  as  if  muted  by  the 
melancholy  of  that  enchanted  wood.  In  one  nook,  a 
rift  in  the  rock,  clear  drops  were  falling  slowly,  glitter- 
ing, one  by  one.  But  moss  stifled  the  sound  of  their 
fall,  and  they  sank  away  like  the  tears  of  an  unspoken 
love. 

There  were  broad  glens  of  wild  narcissus,  many  lilies, 
and  even  butterflies.  But  these  were  dark- winged  and 
not  gay-coloured,  for  the  sun-rays  filtered  through  the 
thick  laurel  became  almost  lunar-pale,  and  pensive  as 
if  fallen  through  the  smoke  of  a  funeral  torch.  It  was 
as  though  Phoebus  had  grown  faint  and  inconsolable 
after  the  final  loss  of  Daphne.  And  she,  remaining, 
overcast  and  shadowy  under  the  most  burning  kisses 
of  the  god,  here  kept  impenetrable  coolness  and  bloom 
\inder  her  branches  for  ever. 

Everywhere  in  that  wood  reigned  the  abandonment, 


3^8  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

the  tender  melancholy  of  the  god  who  loved  in 
vain. 

Already  in  sight,  and  dazzling  through  the  cypresses, 
shone  the  columns  and  pediments  of  the  temple  raised 
in  the  time  of  Seleucus  Nicator.  But  not  a  worshipper 
yet  had  Julian  encountered.  At  last  he  saw  a  child  of 
twelve  years  old,  on  a  path  overgrown  with  wild 
hyacinth.  His  dark  eyes  shone  strangely  brilliant  in 
his  finely  cut  pale  face.  Golden  hair  fell  in  curls  on 
his  slender  neck,  and  his  blue- veined  temples  were 
transparent  as  the  petals  of  a  flower  grown  in  the  shade. 

*'  Do  you  know,  child,  where  are  the  sacrificers  and 
the  people  ?  "  Julian  asked. 

The  child  made  no  answer,  as  if  he  had  not  under- 
stood the  question. 

* '  Listen,  little  one,  can  you  not  lead  me  to  the  priest 
of  Apollo?" 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling. 

*  *  Why  will  you  not  answer  me  ?  " 

Then  the  boy  put  a  finger  to  his  lips  and  then  to  both 
his  ears,  and  shook  his  head  gravely  this  time. 

Julian  thought — 

**  This  must  be  a  deaf-mute." 

The  child  looked  shyly  askance  at  the  Emperor,  who 
grew  almost  fearful  in  the  silent  twilight  of  the  de- 
serted wood  in  the  company  of  the  elf,  who  stared  at 
him  fixedly  and  haughtily  as  a  little  god. 

Suddenly,  he  pointed  out  to  Julian  an  old  man, 
clothed  in  a  patched  and  tattered  tunic  ;  Julian  im- 
mediately recognised  a  temple  priest.  The  weak  and 
broken  old  man  stumbled  along  in  drunken  fashion, 
laughing  and  mumbling  to  himself  as  he  went.  He 
was  red-nosed  and  completely  bald  except  for  a  fringe 
of  downy  grey  hair.  His  watery  and  short-sighted  eyes 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  319 

had  an  expression  of  childlike  benevol^ce.  He  was 
carrying  a  large  basket. 

**  The  priest  of  Apollo  ?  "  asked  Julian. 

'*  I  am  he.  I  am  called  Gorgius.  What  do  you 
want,  good  man  ?  " 

**  Can  you  direct  me  to  the  high-priest  of  this  temple 
and  the  people  worshipping  here  ?  " 

Gorgius  made  no  answer  at  first,  but  put  his  panier 
on  the  ground.  Then  he  rubbed  his  bald  pate  and, 
standing  with  arms  akimbo,  held  his  head  on  one  side 
winking  mischievously  with  his  left  eye. 

' '  And  why  am  /  not  the  high-priest  of  Apollo  ?  "  he 
asked,  **  and  what  worshippers  do  you  mean,  my  son  ? 
.  .  .     May  the  Olympians  protect  you." 

He  smelt  strongly  of  wine.  Julian  thought  his 
behaviour  indecent  and  prepared  to  administer  a 
rebuke — 

**  You  seem  to  be  drunk,  old  man.'* 

Gorgius,  in  no  wise  perturbed,  continued  to  rub  the 
back  of  his  neck. 

"Drunk?  I  don't  think  so.  But  I  may  have  tossed 
off  five  cups  or  so,  for  the  sake  of  the  celebrations  ;  and 
as  to  that,  I  drink  more  through  sorrow  than  merri- 
ment. Yes,  my  son,  may  the  Olympians  have  you  in 
their  keeping  !  .  .  .  Who  are  you  ?  By  your  dress 
perhaps  a  wandering  philosopher,  or  a  professor  from 
the  schools  of  Antioch  ?  ' ' 

The  Emperor  smiled  and  nodded  his  head  in  acqui- 
escence.    He  wished  to  make  the  priest  talk  freely. 

"  You  have  hit  it.     I  am  a  teacher." 

•'  Christian?" 

•*  No,  Hellenist." 

"  Ah,  that  's  good.  There  are  many  others  of  your 
Way  of  thinking  who  hang  about  this  neighbourhood.'* 


320  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

*'You  have  not  yet  answered  me  as  to  where  the 
people  are  :  whether  many  victims  have  been  sent  from 
Antioch ;  whether  the  choirs  are  ready  ** 

**  Victims  ?  Small  thanks  for  victims,"  said  the  old 
man,  laughing  and  stumbling  so  violently  that  he 
nearly  tumbled  down.  *'  Many's  the  long  year,  my 
brother,  since  we  saw  that  kind  of  thing  I  ,  .  ,  Since 
the  time  of  Constantine  .  •  .'*  Gorgius  snapped  his 
fingers  despairingly  and  whistled.  "It  is  all  over — 
done  for  I  .  .  ,  Phut  !  .  •  .  Men  have  forgotten  the 
gods.  Not  only  have  we  no  victims,  but  we  don't 
even  get  a  handful  of  wheat  to  cook  a  cake ;  not  a 
grain  of  incense,  not  a  drop  of  oil  for  the  lamps  .  .  , 
There 's  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  to  bed  and  die !  .  .  . 
Yes,  my  son !  may  the  Olympians  protect  you !  .  .  . 
The  monks  have  taken  everything !  .  .  .  and  they 
fight  each  other ;  they  're  rolling  in  fat.  .  .  .  Our  tale 
is  told.  .  .  .  Ah !  bad  times  these.  And  you  say 
*  Don't  drink  ! '  But  it 's  hard  not  to  drink  when  one 
suffers.  If  I  did  n't  drink  a  bit  I  should  have  hanged 
myself  long  ago.  * ' 

"  And  no  one  has  come  from  Antioch  for  this  great 
feast  day  ?  "  asked  Julian. 

*'  None  but  you,  my  son.  I  am  the  priest,  you  are  the 
people  !    We  will  together  offer  the  victim  to  the  god. ' ' 

*'You  have  just  told  me  that  you  received  no 
victims  r* 

Gorgius  rubbed  the  back  of  his  neck,  grinning — 

"We  received  none  from  others,  but  there  is  my 
own  offering.  We  ve  eaten  little  for  three  days, 
Ilepherion  and  I,  to  save  the  necessary  money.  lyook  !  " 

He  raised  the  lid  of  the  basket.  A  tethered  goose 
slid  out  its  head,  cackling  and  trying  to  escape. 

'*  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  is  not  that  a  victim  ?  '*  asked  the  old 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  321 

man  proudly.  **  Although  it  isn't  a  fat  young  goose 
it  is  nevertheless  a  sacred  bird !  Apollo  ought  to  be 
glad  of  it  just  now.  The  gods  consider  geese  a  deli- 
cacy." 

''  Have  you  long  dwelt  in  this  temple  ?  *'  questioned 
Julian. 

"For  forty  years  and  perhaps  longer.  ..." 

**Is  this  your  son?"  asked  Julian,  pointing  to 
Hepherion,  who  was  staring  at  him  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  follow  the  conversation. 

"No.  I  have  neither  relatives  nor  friends.  He- 
pherion helps  me  at  the  hours  for  sacrifice." 

"Who  are  his  father  and  mother  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know  the  father  and  I  strongly  suspect 
that  no  one  knows  who  he  is.  But  his  mother  was  the 
great  sibyl  Diotima,  who  long  lived  in  this  temple. 
She  would  never  speak  nor  raise  her  veil  before  men. 
She  was  chaste  as  a  vestal.  When  she  brought  this 
child  into  the  world  we  were  all  astonished,  and  at  a 
loss  what  to  think  .  .  •  but  a  learned  centenarian,  a 
magian  told  us  .  .  ." 

Gorgius,  with  a  mysterious  air,  put  his  hand  before 
his  mouth  and  muttered  in  Julian's  ear  as  if  he  feared 
the  child  could  catch  his  words — 

"  The  hierophant  told  us  that  he  was  no  son  of  man, 
but  a  god  come  down  by  night  to  the  sibyl  while  she 
was  asleep  within  the  temple  I  See  how  beautiful  he 
Is!" 

"A  deaf-mute  son  of  a  god?"  murmured  the  Km- 
peror,  surprised. 

**  In  times  like  ours  if  the  son  of  the  god  and  of  the 
sibyl  were  not  a  deaf-mute  he  would  die  of  grief, "  an- 
swered Gorgius*  "See  how  thin  and  pale  he  is 
already ! " 


322  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

**  Who  knows,"  said  Julian,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  but 
that  you  are  right,  old  man.  In  our  days  it  is  well  for 
a  prophet  to  be  a  deaf-mute. ' ' 

Suddenly  the  child  approached  Julian  and  looking 
at  him  fixedly,  seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it.  A  thrill 
ran  through  Julian. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  old  man,  gravely,  '*  may  the 
Olympians  shield  you  ;  you  must  be  a  good  man. 
That  child  never  kisses  the  evil  nor  the  impious,  and 
he  flees  from  the  monks  as  from  the  plague.  I  think 
he  sees  and  understands  more  than  either  of  us  but  can 
utter  nothing.  I  've  often  surprised  him  sitting  before 
the  statue  of  Apollo  for  hours,  gazing  at  him  with  joy 
as  if  he  were  talking  with  the  god." 

The  face  of  Hepherion  grew  dark  and  he  went  away. 

Gorgius  smote  his  head  and  said — 

*  *  I  am  wasting  time  in  gossip.  The  sun  is  up  ;  the 
sacrifice  must  be  performed.     Come  ! ' ' 

**  Wait,"  said  the  Emperor.  "  I  wished  to  ask  you 
something  more.  Have  you  ever  heard  that  the  Em- 
peror Julian  desired  to  restore  to  honour  the  worship 
of  the  old  gods  ?  " 

'  *  Yes,  but  .  .  .  what  can  he  do,  poor  man  ?  He 
will  not  succeed.     I  tell  you — all  's  over!  " 

''Have  you  faith  in  the  gods?"  asked  Julian. 
**  Can  the  Olympians  quit  us  so  for  ever  ?  " 

The  old  man  sighed,  and  hanging  his  head — 

"  My  son,  you  're  young  ;  although  there  are  white 
hairs  shining  in  your  dark  locks,  and  furrows  on  your 
brow  already.  But  in  the  days  when  my  hair  was 
black  and  young  girls  used  to  look  at  me  with  favour, 
I  remember  sailing  in  a  ship,  near  Thessalonica,  and 
seeing  Mount  Olympus.  Its  base  and  its  girdle  melted 
into  blue,  and  its  snowy  summit  seemed  hanging  in 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  323 

the  air,  dominating  sky  and  sea,  golden  and  inacces- 
sible. I  mused  '  Behold  the  dwelling  of  the  gods  ! ' 
and  I  was  full  of  emotion.  But  on  this  same  ship  there 
was  a  scoffing  old  man  who  called  himself  an  Epicurean. 
He  pointed  out  Mount  Olympus,  and  said  to  me  :  '  My 
friend,  travellers  have  long  ago  climbed  Olympus,  and 
they  saw  that  it  was  an  ordinary  mountain,  like  other 
mountains,  on  which  there  was  nothing  but  snow,  ice 
and  stones  ! '  And  those  words  sank  so  deep  into  my 
heart  that  I  shall  remember  them  all  my  life." 

The  Emperor  smiled — 

'*  Old  man,  your  faith  is  childish.  Suppose  there 
were  no  Olympus  —  why  should  not  the  gods  exist 
above,  in  the  kingdom  of  the  eternal  Ideas,  in  the 
realm  of  the  soul's  light  ?  " 

Gorgius  hung  his  head  lower  yet — 

'*  Yes,  yes,  yes  !  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  nevertheless  all  is 
over.     Olympus  is  deserted." 

Julian  gazed  at  him,  surprised. 

**  You  see,"  continued  Gorgius,  **  the  earth  breeds 
nowadays  only  hard  men  or  weak  men.  The  gods  can 
only  laugh  at  them,  or  grow  wrath  with  them.  They 
are  not  worth  destroying.  They  will  perish  of  them- 
selves by  sickness,  debauchery,  or  decline.  The  gods 
are  grown  weary  and  they  have  departed  !  " 

* '  And  do  you  think,  Gorgius,  that  the  human  race 
must  disappear  ?  ' ' 

The  priest  shook  his  bald  head — 

'*  Ah,  ah,  ah  !  The  earth  is  in  pain.  The  rivers 
flow  more  slowly  ;  the  flowers  in  spring  have  not  their 
old  fragrance.  An  ancient  fisherman  lately  told  me 
that  one  can  see  Etna  no  longer  as  we  used  to  do.  The 
air  has  become  thicker  and  darker,  the  sun  is  waxing 
weak  :  the  end  of  the  world  is  near.  .  .  .'* 


324  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  Tell  me,  Gorgius,  can  you  remember  better 
times  ? ' ' 

The  old  man  brightened  up,  and  his  eyes  shone. 

*'  When  I  first  came  here  in  the  first  years  of  the 
reign  of  Constantine,"  he  said  joyfullj^  '*  grand  festi- 
vals were  celebrated  every  year  in  honour  of  Apollo. 
What  numbers  of  lads  and  virgins  used  to  come  to  this 
holy  wood  !  How  the  moon  used  to  shine  !  How  ex- 
quisite the  smell  of  the  cypresses!  How  the  night- 
ingales used  to  sing  !  And  when  their  chant  ceased, 
the  air  would  tremble  with  nocturnal  kisses  and  sigh- 
ings  of  love,  as  with  the  beatings  of  invisible  wings." 

Gorgius  was  silent  and  plunged  in  thought. 

At  that  moment  the  sound  of  church-singing  came 
from  behind  the  trees. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Julian. 

"  The  monks,"  answered  the  priest.  "  Monks 
praying  over  a  dead  Galilean." 

'*  What,  a  Galilean  in  the  wood  sacred  to  Apollo  ?  * 

'*  Yes  ;  they  call  him  the  martyr  Babylas.  Ten  years 
ago  the  brother  of  the  Emperor  Julian,  Caesar  Gallus, 
transferred  the  bones  of  this  Babylas  from  Antioch  into 
this  wood,  and  had  a  superb  sarcophagus  made  for  him. 
From  that  day  the  oracle  ceased.  The  temple  was  sul- 
lied and  the  god  departed. " 

"  What  sacrilege  !  "  exclaimed  the  Emperor  in- 
dignantly. 

*'  That  year  the  virgin  sibyl  Diotima  gave  birth  to  a 
deaf-mute  child,  a  bad  omen.  Only  one  sacred  spring 
was  left  us  and  did  not  dry  up,  the  spring  called  Tears 
of  the  Sun  .  .  .  over  there,  where  the  child  is  now 
sitting.  ..." 

Julian  turned  round.  The  boy  was  sitting  in  frotiu 
of  the  mossy  rock,  motionless,  and  in  his  open  palo 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  325 

receiving  the  falling  drops.  Julian  almost  imagined  he 
saw  two  transparent  wings  trembling  behind  the 
divinely  beautiful  child.  So  sad,  so  pale,  so  enchant- 
ing his  look,  that  the  Emperor  mused  — 

"  He  must  be  Eros,  the  little  god  of  love,  dying  in 
our  century  of  Galilean  moroseness,  and  in  his  hand 
receiving  the  last  drops,  the  last  tears  of  love,  tears  of 
the  god  over  Daphne,  over  the  vanished  beauty  of 
Daphne  !  " 

The  deaf-mute  remained  motionless,  and  a  great 
black  velvety  butterfly  alighted  on  his  head.  He 
neither  saw  it,  nor  stirred.  I^ike  a  malign  shadow  the 
butterfly  opened  and  shut  its  wings,  while  the  Tears 
of  the  Sun  dropped,  one  by  one,  into  the  hand  of 
Hepherion.  I^ouder  and  louder  in  the  distance  rose 
funereal  psalms. 

Suddenly  from  behind  the  cypresses  came  the  sound 
of  voices  disputing — 

**  Augustus  is  there." 

"  Why  should  he  go  alone  to  Daphne  ?  " 

'*  Why  not  ?  to-day  is  the  great  festival  of  Apollo. 
See,  there  he  is  .  .  .  Julian,  we  have  sought  you 
since  the  morning  !  " 

They  were  Greek  sophists,  men  of  science  and  rheto- 
ricians, habitual  companions  of  the  Emperor,  and 
with  them  the  Neo-Platonist  Priscus  of  Epirus,  the 
bilious  sceptic  Julius  Mauricus,  the  wise  Sallustius 
Secundus,  and  the  celebrated  orator  Iribanius. 

Julian  vouchsafed  them  not  the  least  attention. 

'*  What  's  the  matter?"  murmured  Julius  to 
Priscus. 

' '  He  must  be  displeased  that  there  has  been  no  pre- 
paration for  the  feast  !  We  have  not  sent  a  single 
ofifering  ..." 


326  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Julian  addressed  the  former  Christian  rhetorician, 
now  the  high -priest  of  Astarte,  Hekobolis — 

*'  Go  into  the  neighbouring  chapel,  and  inform  the 
Galileans  praying  there  of  my  will.  Let  them  come 
here." 

Hekobolis  went. 

Gorgius,  still  holding  his  basket,  stood  petrified, 
with  eyes  and  mouth  wide  open.  He  rubbed  his  bald 
head.  Had  he  not  drunk  too  much  ?  It  must  all  be 
a  dream  !  But  when  he  remembered  all  he  had  said 
about  Julian  and  the  god  to  the  pretended  professor,  a 
cold  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead,  his  legs  trembled, 
and  he  fell  on  his  knees — 

**  Pardon,  Caesar  !     Forget  my  words  !  " 

One  of  the  philosophers  wished  to  thrust  away  the 
old  man  ;  but  Julian  stopped  him — 

*'  Do  not  insult  the  sacrificial  priest.  Rise,  Gorgius, 
there  is  my  hand  ;  fear  nothing.  So  long  as  I  live, 
none  shall  do  harm  to  you  or  to  your  little  lad.  You 
and  I  both  came  for  the  festival,  both  love  the  old 
gods.  We  will  be  friends  and  rejoice  together  at  this 
feast  of  the  Sun  !" 

The  psalms  had  meantime  ceased.  Frightened 
monks  appeared  coming  up  the  alley  of  cypresses, 
deacons  and  superiors  still  in  the  sacerdotal  dress  and 
led  by  Hekobolis.  The  arch-priest,  a  fat  man  with  a 
shining  red  face,  walked  swaying  from  side  to  side, 
much  out  of  breath  and  wiping  his  brow.  He  saluted 
Augustus  profoundly,  reaching  one  finger  to  the 
ground,  and  said  in  a  pleasant  bass  voice — 

"  May  the  humane  Augustus  pardon  his  unworthy 
servants  !  " 

He  bowed  lower  yet,  and  two  novices  skilfully  as- 
sisted him  to  rise  again.    One  of  them  had  forgotten  to 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  327 

put  away  the  censer,  from  which  the  incense  was  escap- 
ing in  thin  fillets  of  smoke. 

At  the  sight  of  the  monks  Hepherion  fled.  Julian 
said — 

**  Galileans,  I  order  you  to  rid  the  sacred  wood  of 
Apollo  of  the  relics  of  your  co-religionist.  We  do  not 
desire  to  use  force  against  you,  but  if  our  will  is  not 
carried  out,  I  must  myself  see  that  Helios  is  delivered 
from  such  sacrilege.  I  shall  send  here  my  soldiers, 
who  will  disinter  the  bones,  burn  them,  and  scatter  the 
ashes  to  the  winds. ' ' 

The  arch-priest  coughed,  and  finally  said  in  a  hum- 
ble tone — 

* '  Most  merciful  Caesar,  that  is  hard  on  us,  for  these 
relics  have  long  rested  here,  in  a  place  blessed  by  the 
will  of  Caesar  Gallus.  But  as  it  is  a  matter  beyond  our 
jurisdiction,  we  are  forced  to  refer  it  to  the  bishop." 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd  ;  an  urchin  hidden 
in  a  laurel  bush  shouted — 

'*  The  butcher  comes 
With  a  big,  big  knife  I " 

But  he  received  such  a  buffet  that  he  fled,  howling. 

The  arch-priest,  feeling  that  decency  obliged  him  to 
defend  the  relics,  coughed  again  and  began — 

"  If  it  pleases  your  High  Wisdom  to  give  this  order 
on  account  of  the  idol  .  .  ."  he  quickly  corrected 
himself. 

"  Of  the  Hellenic  god,  Helios  .  .  ." 

The  Emperor's  eyes  sparkled  with  rage. 

**  The  '  idol,'  "  he  interrupted,  "  *  idol '  is  your 
word.  For  what  imbeciles  do  you  take  us,  if  you 
*^hink  that  we  worship  the  matter  that  represents  our 


328  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

gods,  metal,  stone,  or  wood.  All  your  preachers  preach 
this,  but  it  is  a  lie.  We  worship  not  these  things,  but 
the  soul,  the  living  soul  of  beauty  in  these  models  of 
the  purest  human  beauty.  It  is  not  we,  the  idolaters, 
but  you — you,  who  devour  each  other  like  wild  beasts 
for  the  sake  of  an  iota  ;  you,  who  kiss  the  rotten  bones 
of  criminals  punished  for  breaking  the  Roman  laws  ; 
you,  who  call  the  fratricide  Constantius  an  '  Kternal 
Holiness ! '  To  deify  the  splendid  sculptures  of  Phidias, 
which  breathe  Olympian  beauty  and  goodness,  is  that 
less  reasonable  than  to  bow  before  two  crossed  beams  of 
wood,  a  shameful  instrument  of  torture  ?  Must  one 
blush  for  you,  pity  you,  or  hate  you  ?  It  is  the  pitch 
of  mad  degradation  for  our  country,  to  see  sons  of  the 
Hellenes,  who  read  Plato  and  Homer,  rushing  to  an 
outcast  tribe,  a  tribe  almost  blotted  out  by  Vespasian 
and  Titus,  in  order  to  deify  a  dead  man  !  .  .  .  And 
you  still  dare  to  accuse  us  of  idolatry  ! ' ' 

The  arch-priest  imperturbably  stroked  his  long 
beard,  and  looking  at  Julian  askance,  wiped  the  per- 
spiration from  his  glistening  forehead. 

Then  the  Emperor  said  to  Priscus  the  philosopher — 

"  My  friend,  accomplish  the  Delian  mysteries  with 
which  you  are  familiar.  We  must  purify  the  Temple 
of  Apollo.  He  will  return  to  his  dwelling,  and  once 
we  have  taken  away  the  stone  which  seals  the  spring, 
the  oracle  will  speak  again." 

The  arch-priest  terminated  the  interview  with  a  deep 
bow  and  the  same  obsequious  manner,  in  which  an  in- 
vincible tenacity  could  be  felt — 

"  lyCt  your  will  be  done,  Caesar.  We  are  the  child- 
ren, you  are  the  father  ;  but  there  is  no  power  above 
the  power  of  God. ' ' 

*'  Oh,  you  hypocrites,  I  know  your  obedience  and 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  329 

your  humility  !  Your  humility  is  the  serpent's  fang  ! 
Why  not  struggle  against  me  at  least  like  men  ?  " 

Julian  turned  round  to  depart,  when  a  little  old 
man  and  woman  issued  from  the  crowd  and  prostrated 
themselves  at  his  feet.  They  were  poorly  but  cleanly 
dressed,  and  bore  a  surprising  resemblance  to  each 
other,  reminding  him  of  Philemon  and  Baucis. 

*'  Protect  us,  just  Caesar,"  whispered  the  old  man. 
"  We  have  a  little  house  near  Antioch  at  the  foot  of 
the  Stavrinus.  We  've  lived  there  twenty  years,  and 
now  the  town-senators,  the  decurions,  are  come  ..." 
The  old  man  clasped  his  hands  despairingly,  and  the 
old  woman,  imitating  him,  did  the  same. 

**  The  decurions  come  and  say,  '  This  house  does  not 
belong  to  you!' — 'What — the  Lord  be  with  you — 
we  've  been  here  twenty  years  ! ' — '  Yes  ;  but  you  had 
no  right.  The  land  belongs  to  the  temple  of  the  god 
^sculapius,  and  your  house  is  built  with  the  temple- 
stones.  It  must  return  to  ^sculapius.'  What  does 
this  mean  ?  .  .  .  Have  mercy,  all-powerful  Augus- 
tus ! " 

The  two  old  people,  with  their  clear  and  child-like 
faces,  were  kneeling  before  him,  and  weeping,  kissed 
his  feet. 

Julian  perceived  an  amber  cross  on  the  woman's 
neck. 

* '  Are  you  Christians  ?  "  he  asked,  his  brow  growing 
sombre. 

"Yes." 

"  I  should  like  to  grant  your  prayer  .  .  .  but  how 
is  it  to  be  done  ?  The  land  belongs  to  the  god.  .  .  r 
Nevertheless,  your  property  shall  be  paid  for." 

*'  No,  no,"  cried  out  the  old  people,  '*  we  're 
rooted    there    by  all  our  habits.     We  don't  ask  for 


330  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

money.  But  there  everything  is  ours  ;  we  know  every 
blade  of  grass.  ..." 

''  There  everything  is  ours,"  repeated  the  old  woman 
like  an  echo.  ''  The  vine,  the  chickens,  the  cow,  the 
olives,  the  pigs — everything  is  ours.  And  there  's  the 
step  too,  on  which  in  the  evening  we  have  warmed  our 
old  bones  in  the  sun,  side  by  side,  for  these  twenty 
years." 

The  Emperor,  without  listening,  turned  toward  the 
startled  crowd — 

*'  Latterly  the  Galileans  have  overwhelmed  me  with 
demands  for  the  return  of  lands  belonging  to  the 
churches,  and  the  Valentinians  accuse  the  Arians  of 
having  robbed  them  of  their  properties.  To  cut  short 
dispute  I  have  given  half  of  those  lands  to  the  Gallic 
warriors  and  the  other  half  to  the  Imperial  Treasury  ; 
and  I  am  decided  to  act  similarly  in  future.  By  what 
right,  you  ask  ?  But  is  it  not  more  easy  for  a  camel  to 
pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  rich  man  to 
enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ?  You  glorify  poverty, 
Galileans  ?  Why  murmur  against  me  ?  In  taking 
property  which  you  yourselves  have  taken  from  your 
brother-heretics,  or  from  Olympian  temples,  I  am  only 
restoring  you  to  wholesome  poverty  and  the  narrow 
way  into  the  heavenly  kingdom." 

An  evil  smile  curled  his  lips. 

"  We  're  injured  unjustly,"  groaned  the  two  old 
people. 

"  Well,  suffer  the  injustice  !  "  answered  Julian. 
**  You  should  rejoice  in  persecution.  What  are  these 
sufferings  to  eternal  bliss  ?  " 

The  old  man,  unprepared  for  this  deduction,  stam- 
mered in  dismay,  as  a  forlorn  hope — 

"  We  are  your  faithful  slaves,  Augustus.     My  son 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  331 

serves  on  the  military  staff,  in  a  distant  fortress  of  the 
Roman  frontier,  and  his  superior  ofl&cers  think  well  of 
him.  .  .  ." 

"  Is  he  also  a  Christian  ?  "  interrupted  Julian. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  old  man,  and  was  immediately 
dismayed  at  the  avowal. 

"  You  have  done  well  to  warn  me.  As  proved  ene- 
mies of  the  Roman  Augustus,  Christians  must  not 
henceforth  occupy  high  Imperial  office,  above  all  in  the 
army.  I  am  more  of  your  Master's  opinion  than  you 
are  yourselves.  How  should  disciples  of  Jesus  do  jus- 
tice according  to  the  Roman  law,  when  He  has  said, 
^  Judge  not,  and  ye  shall  not  be  judged'  f  How  should 
Christians  rightly  defend  the  Empire  by  the  sword, 
when  they  were  taught  b}^  Him  *  He  who  shall  take  up 
the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword';  and  again,  *  Resist 
not  eviV  f  Therefore,  for  the  safety  of  your  souls,  we 
shall  withdraw  Christians  from  the  law  and  from  the 
army  of  Rome  ;  that  helpless,  and  disarmed,  and  free 
from  frivolous  earthliness,  they  may  reach  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  ! ' ' 

Smiling  inwardly,  and  so  robbing  his  hatred  of  still 
greater  bitterness,  the  Emperor  strode  rapidly  toward 
the  Temple  of  Apollo. 

The  old  people  stretched  their  arms  after  him, 
sobbing — 

**  Caesar,  we  did  it  unwittingly  !  Take  our  house, 
our  land,  all  that  we  have,  but  have  pity  on  our 
son!" 

The  philosophers  wished  to  enter  the  temple,  but  the 
Emperor  waved  them  back — 

* '  I  came  to  the  festival  alone.  I  alone  will  offer  the 
sacrifice  !  " 

**  I^et  us  go  in,"    he  added,  addressing   Gorgius. 


332  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Close  the  doors,  and  let  none  of  the  unconsecrated 
enter.  ..." 

And  the  doors  were  shut  in  the  faces  of  his  philo- 
sopher friends. 

'''Unconsecrated?'  How  do  you  like  that?'* 
asked  Garguillus  moodily. 

Libanius  stood  sulking  in  silence. 

Mauricus,  with  a  mysterious  air,  dragged  his  friends 
into  a  corner  of  the  portico,  and  touching  his  forehead 
with  a  finger  murmured — 

'*  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

All  were  dumbfounded. 

**  Isit  possible?" 

Mauricus  began  to  reckon — 

"  First,  pallor,  feverish  appearance,  disordered  hair, 
irregular  step,  incoherent  speeches  ;  second,  excessive 
harshness  and  nervousness  ;  third,  this  stupid  war 
against  the  Persians  !  .  .  .  By  Pallas,  it  clearly  means 
madness  !  " 

The  friends  drew  closer,  and  began  to  tell  each  other 
all  sorts  of  anecdotes.  Sallustius,  who  held  aloof,  con- 
templated the  group  with  a  bitter  smile. 

Within  the  temple  Julian  found  Hepherion,  who 
brightened  on  seeing  him,  and  several  times  during 
the  rite  gazed  into  the  Emperor's  face,  as  if  the  two 
had  some  secret  in  common.  Shining  in  the  sunlight, 
the  colossal  statue  of  Apollo  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 
temple,  its  body  ivory  and  its  garments  golden,  like 
those  of  the  Zeus  by  Phidias  at  Olympia.  The  god, 
stooping  slightly,  was  pouring  the  nectar  of  his  cup  to 
the  Earth-Mother,  praying  her  to  restore  him  Daphne. 

A  slight  cloud  passed  above  the  temple.  Shadows 
ran  over  the  time-yellowed  ivory.  It  seemed  to  Julian 
that  the  god  benignly  stooped  still  lower,  to  receive  the 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  333 

offering  of  the  last  adorers — the  weak  priest,  the  apo- 
state Emperor,  and  the  deaf-mute  son  of  the  sibyl. 

"  This  is  my  reward,"  thought  Julian.  "  I  wish 
for  no  other  glory,  nor  guerdon,  O  Apollo  !  I  thank 
thee  for  the  curses  of  the  crowd  ;  and  for  thy  grace, 
in  making  me  live  and  die  alone,  like  thyself  !  There, 
where  the  populace  prays,  there  is  no  god  !  Thou  art 
here,  in  this  sanctuary  profaned.  O  god,  scorned  by 
mankind,  now  art  thou  far  more  beautiful  than  of  old 
when  they  adored  thee  !  On  the  day  marked  for  me 
by  the  Fates,  let  me  be  joined  again  to  thee,  O  Radiant 
One  !  Let  me  die  in  thee.  Sun,  as  the  fire  of  the  last 
offering  dies  in  thy  rays  ! ' ' 

So  prayed  the  Emperor,  tears  streaming  down  his 
cheeks,  and  one  by  one  the  drops  of  the  victim's  blood 
fell  like  tears  on  the  half-consumed  embers. 


XIII 

A  PROFOUND  obscurity  enveloped  the  wood  ot 
Daphne  on  all  sides.  A  hot  wind  was  hunting 
the  clouds  along.  For  days  not  a  drop  of  rain  had 
fallen  on  the  cracked  and  arid  earth.  The  laurels  were 
shaking  their  black  branches  to  heaven.  The  low  roar 
of  the  cypresses  in  their  titanic  alleys  was  like  the  mur- 
mur of  a  crowd  of  angry  old  men. 

Two  persons  were  gliding  cautiously  through  the 
shadow  towards  the  Temple  of  Apollo.  The  smaller, 
who  had  green  eyes  like  a  cat,  saw  clearly  through 
the  night,  and  was  leading  the  more  stalwart  by  the 
hand. 

*  *  Oh !  oh !  you  scoundrel !  we  shall  break  our  necks 
in  some  ditch!  " 

* '  There  is  no  ditch  here  !  What  are  you  afraid  of  ? 
Since  you  adopted  the  new  religion  you  've  become  a 
regular  old  woman  !  " 

"  An  old  woman  !  .  .  .  When  I  used  to  hunt  the 
bear  my  heart  had  never  a  throb  the  quicker  !  But 
here  .  .  .  this  is  n't  a  job  like  that!  .  .  .  We  shall 
swing  for  it,  side  by  side,  on  the  same  gallows,  my 
boy." 

"  Nonsense!     Be  quiet,  you  great  fool!  " 

The  small  man  again  began  dragging  along  the 
bigger,  who  carried  an  enormous  truss  of  hay  and  a 
pickaxe. 

They  arrived  at  a  postern  door  of  the  temple. 

**  Here,  use  the  pick  !  "  muttered  the  little  man, 
934 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  335 

groping  with  his  hands  for  cracks  in  the  stone.     "And 
you  can  cut  the  cross-timbers  with  the  axe  ..." 

Suddenly  there  came  a  cry,  like  the  complaint  of  a 
sick  child.     The  tall  man  trembled  in  all  his  limbs — 

"What  is  it?" 

"  The  Demon  !  "  exclaimed  the  little  one,  his  eyes 
staring  with  affright,  clutching  at  the  clothes  of  his 
companion — 

"  You  won't  desert  me,  old  fellow  ?  " 

"  It 's  an  owl  !  .  .  .  Well,  he  can  plume  himself  on 
having  scared  us  !  " 

The  enormous  night-bird,  startled  from  his  nest, 
flew  away  with  a  sobbing  cry. 

"  Let  's  give  it  up,"  said  the  tall  man.  "  That  will 
never  kindle." 

"  Why  not  ?  The  wood  's  rotten,  dry  as  tinder  in 
the  sun,  and  all  worm-eaten.  ...  A  single  spark  will 
do.     Come,  work  along  !  " 

And  the  little  man  shoved  the  taller. 

"  Now,  push  the  straw  into  the  hole  !  .  .  .  more, 
more,  for  the  glory  of  the  Father,  of  the  Son,  and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost!" 

"  Why  are  you  fidgeting  about  like  an  eel  ?  "  said 
the  tall  man,  in  annoyance.  "  And  what  is  there  to 
laugh  at?" 

* '  Ha,  ha,  ha !  What  ?  The  angels  of  heaven  must  be 
rejoicing  .  .  .  Only  remember,  uncle,  if  we 'retaken, 
don't  deny  what  we  've  done.  We  '11  have  a  pretty 
little  blaze  !  .  .    .     Here,  take  the  flint  and  steel  !  " 

"Go  to  the  devil  !  "  answered  the  other.  "  You 
sha'n't  tempt  me,  cursed  little  snake  !  Pah  !  Kindle 
yourself!" 

"  Ah,  you  're  crying  off  .  .  ."  and  trembling  with 
rage  the  little  man  seized  the  big  by  man  the  beard- 


33^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  I  '11  be  the  first  to  denounce  you  ;  I  shall  be  be- 
lieved ..." 

'*  I^eave  me  alone,  damn  you.  Give  me  the  flint 
...     I  've  had  enough  of  this." 

The  sparks  sprang  out.  The  smaller  man,  for  greater 
comfort,  or  to  complete  his  resemblance  to  a  young 
snake,  laid  himself  flat  on  his  stomach.  Thin  tongues 
of  flame  ran  through  the  straw,  which  had  been  soaked 
in  pitch.  Thick  smoke  arose.  A  mass  of  flame  shone 
ruddily  on  the  distressed  face  of  the  giant  Aragaris, 
and  the  monkey-like  visage  of  the  little  Syrian,  Strom- 
bix,  who  began  leaping  and  laughing  like  one  drunk 
or  mad — 

*'  We  '11  destroy  it  all,  in  the  name  of  the  Father, 
Son,  and  Holy  Ghost!  Ho!  ho!  ho!  A  pretty  little 
blaze,  eh  !" 

There  was  something  ferocious  in  his  destructive 
glee. 

Aragaris,  pointing  to  the  darkness,  muttered — 

"  Don't  you  hear  something  ?  " 

Not  a  soul  was  in  the  wood,  but  the  incendiaries,  in 
the  roaring  of  the  wind  and  the  moaning  of  the 
cypresses,  imagined  that  they  heard  voices. 

Aragaris  began  to  run. 

*'  Take  me  on  your  shoulders,  comrade  !  You  've 
long  legs." 

Aragaris  halted;  Strom bix  sprang  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  Sarmatian  like  a  squirrel,  and  they  fled  away. 
The  little  Syrian  dug  his  knees  into  his  companion's 
ribs,  and  put  his  arms  round  his  neck  to  avoid  fall- 
ing. In  spite  of  his  fear  he  laughed  and  shouted 
with  joy.  The  pair  gained  the  open  field.  Between 
the  clouds,  the  moon  in  its  last  quarter  was  shining, 
and  the  wind  roared  harshly.    Strombix  on  the  giant's 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  337 

shoulders  seemed  an  evil  spirit  riding  his  victim  to 
hell.  The  idea  in  fact  suddenly  struck  Aragaris 
that  the  Demon,  in  the  shape  of  a  great  cat,  was 
hunting  him  along  with  his  claws  to  the  abyss.  The 
giant  made  desperate  bounds  to  shake  off  his  burden. 
The  hair  bristled  on  his  head,  and  he  yelled  with  terror. 
The  black,  double  figure  of  the  pair  running,  stooped 
towards  the  dry,  hard  earth,  over  the  withered  fields, 
was  silhouetted  against  the  pale  horizon. 

At  the  same  hour,  in  his  chamber  in  the  palace  at 
Antioch,  Julian  was  having  a  secret  interview  with  the 
prefect  Sallustius  Secundus — 

"  Where  shall  we  obtain,  well-beloved  Caesar,  the 
necessary  food  for  such  an  army  ?  ' ' 

"I  '11  send  to  Sicily,  to  Egypt,  to  Apulia,  in  all 
directions  where  the  harvests  are  abundant,"  answered 
the  Emperor.  * '  I  can  answer  for  it  that  there  will  be 
food  enough  ..." 

**  And  money  ?  "  asked  Sallustius.  "  Would  it  not 
be  better  to  postpone  this  campaign  till  next  year  ? 
Wait  a  little  ?  " 

Julian  strode  up  and  down  the  room.  Suddenly  he 
halted  before  the  other  man. 

* '  Wait  !  "  he  exclaimed  angrily.  * '  One  would  say 
the  word  was  a  kind  of  pass- word,  it  is  repeated  to  me 
so  often  !  .  .  .  Wait  ?  As  if  it  were  possible  to  wait 
now,  to  weigh,  vacillate,  hesitate  !  Are  the  Galileans 
waiting?  Understand,  Senator,  I  must  achieve  the 
impossible ;  I  must  return  from  Persia  great  and 
terrible  ...  or  not  return  at  all.  No  more  concilia- 
tions, or  half  measures,  are  possible  !  .  .  .  Why  speak 
of  reason  ?  Did  the  Macedonian  Alexander  conquer 
the  world  by  reason — the  beardless  young  man  who, 


33^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

with  a  mere  handful  of  soldiers,  went  to  fight  the  mon- 
archs  of  Asia  ?  Was  he  not  mad,  in  the  sight  of 
reasonable  men  like  you  ?     What  gave  him  victory  ?  ' ' 

**  I  do  not  know,"  responded  the  prefect  evasively. 
*' I  suppose  the  valour  of  the  hero.  ..." 

*'  No,"  exclaimed  Julian.  "  The  gods  !  Under- 
stand, Sallustius,  the  Olympians  can  grant  me  the 
same  grace,  and  a  greater  still,  if  it  please  them.  I 
will  cross  the  world  from  east  to  west,  like  the  great 
Macedonian,  like  the  god  Dionysus.  When  I  come 
back  victorious  from  Asia  we  shall  see  what  the 
Christians  have  to  say,  whether  they  will  mock  at  the 
sword  of  the  Roman  Emperor  as  they  mock  at  the  plain 
robe  of  the  philosopher." 

His  eyes  seemed  glittering  with  madness;  and  Sal- 
lustius, seeing  that  further  objection  was  useless,  said 
nothing.  But  when  Julian  began  to  walk  up  and 
down,  the  prefect  shook  his  head  and  deep  pity  was 
expressed  in  the  kindly  gaze  of  the  old  man. 

"The  army  must  be  ready  to  march,"  continued 
Julian.  "  I  desire  it,  do  you  hear?  I  will  have  no 
excuses  nor  delays.  Arsaces,  the  Armenian  king,  has 
promised  help.  There  is  bread.  What  more  is  lack- 
ing ?  I  must  know  that  I  can  at  any  moment  set  out 
against  the  Persians.  On  this  depends  not  only  my 
glory,  but  the  safety  of  the  Roman  Empire  and  the 
victory  of  the  gods  against  the  Galileans!  ..." 

The  warm  wind,  blowing  into  the  chamber,  agitated 
the  three  flames  of  the  lampadary.  A  shooting-star 
scored  the  dark  blue  night-sky  and  vanished.  Julian 
«aw  it,  and  was  strangely  thrilled. 

Outside  the  door  voices  were  heard.  Someone 
knocked. 

**  Who  is  there  ?     Come  in!  "  said  the  Emperor. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  339 

They  were  his  philosopher  friends.  lyibanius,  at 
their  head,  seemed  more  emphatic  and  sullen  thaq 
usual. 

* '  What  is  your  desire  ?  ' '  asked  Julian  coldly. 

I,ibanius  knelt,  still  retaining  his  arrogant  air — 

* '  Let  me  depart,  Augustus.  I  can  no  longer  endure 
life  at  your  Court.  My  patience  is  exhausted.  Every 
day  there  is  some  new  insult  to  put  up  with  .  .  ." 
and  he  spoke  at  length  of  rewards,  the  moneys  received 
by  him  no  longer,  of  ingratitude  in  view  of  his  services, 
and  the  splendid  panegyrics  with  which  he  had  glori- 
fied Caesar. 

But  Julian,  unheeding,  gazed  at  the  celebrated  oratoi 
with  disgust.  Could  this  really  be  the  same  lyibanius 
whose  speeches  he  had  admired  so  much  in  youth  ? 
What  baseness  !  what  vanity  ! 

Then  all  the  philosophers  began  speaking  at  once. 
Their  voices  rose,  they  mutually  accused  each  other  of 
impiety,  debauchery,  peculation,  repeating  the  most 
fatuous  scandals.  The  scene  was  a  petty  civil  war,  not 
of  the  wise,  but  between  parasites  waxed  fat  through 
prosperity,  ready  to  fly  at  each  other's  throats  through 
pride,  anger,  and  idleness. 

At  last  the  Emperor  uttered  a  word  which  brought 
them  back  to  their  senses —  , 

"  Masters!  " 

All  were  silenced  like  so  many  frightened  magpies. 

**  Masters  !  "  repeated  Julian,  with  bitter  irony,  ''  I 
have  heard  you  long  enough.  Permit  me  to  relate  you 
a  fable  :  *  An  Egyptian  king  had  a  set  of  tame  apes, 
trained  to  perform  a  war-dance  of  Epirus.  They  were 
costumed  in  helmets  and  masks;  their  tails  were  hidden 
under  the  Imperial  purple,  and  while  they  were  dancing 
it  was  difi&cult  to  believe  they  were  not  human.     This 


340  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

spectacle  gave  general  delight  for  years.  But  on  one 
occasion  one  of  the  spectators  happened  to  throw  on  the 
stage  a  handful  of  nuts  !  And  what  happened  ?  The 
warriors  tore  off  their  purple  and  masks,  readjusted 
their  tails,  dropped  on  all  fours,  and  began  to  bite  each 
other. '     How  do  you  like  my  fable,  masters  ? ' ' 

Everybody  was  silent.  Suddenly  Sallustius  took  the 
Emperor  by  the  hand  and  pointed  to  the  open  window. 
Under  the  sombre  masses  of  clouds  a  reddish  light, 
tossed  by  a  violent  wind,  seemed  slowly  spreading. 

*'  Fire  !  fire  !  "  all  present  cried. 

**  On  the  other  side  of  the  river,"  some  suggested. 

"  No,  at  Garanddma,"  others  cried. 

*'  No,  it  must  be  at  Gezireh,  in  the  Jew  quarter  !  " 

**  It  's  neither  at  Gezireh  nor  at  Garanddma,"  ex- 
claimed a  voice,  with  the  exultant  tone  of  one  in  a 
crowd  at  sight  of  a  conflagration.  *'  It  is  in  the  wood 
of  Daphne  !  " 

"  Apollo's  temple  !  "  murmured  the  Emperor,  whose 
heart  was  beating  wildly.  ''  The  Galileans  !  "  he 
shouted  with  a  mad  voice,  rushing  to  the  door,  then  to 
the  staircase. 

* '  Slaves,  .  .  .  quick !  My  charger  and  fifty  legion- 
aries ! ' ' 

In  a  few  moments  all  was  ready.  A  black  colt, 
trembling  all  over  and  with  a  dangerous  look  in  his 
bloodshot  eyes,  was  led  into  the  courtyard. 

Julian  rode  at  a  breakneck  speed  through  the  streets 
of  Antioch,  followed  by  his  legionaries.  The  crowd 
scattered  in  terror  before  them.  One  man  was  knocked 
down  and  another  trampled  to  death,  but  their  cries 
were  drowned  by  the  thunder  of  hoofs  and  the  clatter 
of  arms. 

The  open  country  was  reached.    Julian  knew  not 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  341 

how  long  the  mad  gallop  lasted;  three  legionaries  fell 
with  their  foundered  horses.  The  glow  became  brighter 
and  brighter  and  the  smell  of  smoke  perceptible.  The 
fields  with  their  dusty  vegetation  assumed  a  yellow- 
ish hue.  A  curious  crowd  rushed  up  from  every  side, 
like  moths  to  a  flame.  Julian  noticed  the  joyous- 
ness  of  their  faces,  as  if  they  were  hurrying  to  a 
festival. 

Tongues  of  flame  glittered,  in  thick  smoke-clouds, 
above  the  wood  of  Daphne.  The  Emperor  penetrated 
into  the  sacred  enclosure.  There  the  crowd  was  bel- 
lowing, and  exchanging  pleasantries  and  laughter. 

The  calm  alleys,  abandoned  by  all  for  so  many  years, 
were  swarming.  Rioters  profaned  the  wood,  broke 
down  branches  of  ancient  laurels,  befouled  the  springs, 
and  trampled  on  the  sleeping  flowers.  The  cool  odour 
of  narcissus  and  lily  strove  with  the  stifling  heat  of  the 
fire  and  the  breath  of  the  people. 

"  A  miracle  from  God,"  murmured  the  crowd  glee- 
fully. "  I  myself  saw  lightning  fall  from  heaven  and 
kindle  the  roof  !  " 

* '  No,  thou  liest  I  The  earth  split  in  the  midst  of  the 
temple  and  vomited  flames  underneath  the  idol  !  " 

*''S  death!  .  .  .  It  was  after  the  abominable  order 
to  shift  the  relics.  They  thought  they  could  do  it 
without  let  or  hindrance.  .  .  .  Pooh !  ,  .  .  So  much 
for  your  Temple  of  Apollo  and  prophecy  from  the 
sacred  spring  !     It  is  a  blessing  !  " 

Julian  saw  in  the  crowd  a  woman  half-dressed,  as  if 
newly  risen  from  bed.  With  a  stupid  smile  she  was 
wondering  at  the  fire,  while  cradling  on  her  arm  an 
infant  at  the  breast.  Tears  still  trembled  on  the  eye- 
lashes of  the  little  one;  but  he  quieted  himself  sucking 
vigorously  at  the  breast,  against  which  he  had  propped 


342  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

himself  with  one  hand,  while  stretching  the  other  to- 
wards the  flames  as  if  for  a  new  plaything. 

The  Emperor  reined  up  his  horse.  Further  advance 
was  impossible,  by  reason  of  the  heat.  The  legionaries 
stood  awaiting  orders.  But  Julian  saw  that  the  temple 
was  doomed.  From  base  to  roof  it  was  enveloped  in 
flames,  like  an  immense  brazier.  Walls,  joists,  and 
carven  cross-beams  were  falling  in,  with  crash  after 
crash,  and  whirlwinds  of  sparks  mounted  to  a  sky 
which  came  down  lower  and  lower,  lurid  and  menacing. 
The  flames  seemed  to  lick  the  clouds,  struggling 
against  the  embraces  of  the  wind  and,  roaring,  flapped 
like  great  sails.  The  laurel  leaves  writhed  in  the  heat, 
and  doubled  themselves  as  in  torture.  The  peaks  of 
the  cypresses,  kindled  like  huge  torches,  gave  up  the 
smoke  of  sacrifice.  Drops  of  resin  fell  thickly  from  the 
centenarian  trees,  old  as  the  temple. 

Julian  gazed  haggardly  at  the  fire.  He  wished  to 
give  an  order  to  the  legionaries ;  but  drawing  his  sword 
from  the  scabbard  and  curbing  his  restive  horse,  he 
could  only  ejaculate  impotently  between  clenched  teeth 
— **  Oh,  wretched,  wretched  people  !  " 

Shouts  of  the  crowd  sounded  in  the  distance.  Julian 
recollected  that  the  entrance  to  the  treasury  was  at  the 
back  ;  and  the  idea  occurred  to  him  that  the  Galileans 
were  pillaging  the  wealth  of  the  god.  .  .  .  He  made 
a  sign,  and  dashed  in  that  direction,  followed  by  the 
legionaries.  A  melancholy  procession  brought  him  to 
a  halt.  A  few  Roman  guards,  who  had  run  up  in 
haste  from  the  village  of  Daphne,  were  carrying  a  rude 
litter. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Julian. 

**  The  Galileans  have  stoned  the  priest  Gorgius  to 
death." 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  343 

**  And  the  treasury  ?  " 

"  It  is  untouched.  Standing  on  the  threshold  of  the 
door,  the  priest  defended  the  entrance.  He  never  left 
his  post  until  a  stone  stretched  him  on  the  ground. 
Then  they  killed  the  child.  The  Galilean  horde,  after 
trampling  them  under  foot,  would  have  got  into  the 
treasury  if  we  had  n't  arrived  in  time." 

**  Is  he  still  alive?" 

'*  Hardly  breathing." 

The  Emperor  leapt  from  his  horse.  The  litter  was 
laid  gently  down  ;  and  Julian  stooping,  cautiously 
lifted  a  corner  of  the  old  chlamys  of  the  priest,  which 
covered  both  bodies.  The  old  man  was  stretched  with 
closed  eyes  and  scarcely  heaving  breast  on  a  bed  of 
fresh  laurel-branches.  Julian's  heart  shook  with  pity 
when  he  saw  the  red-nosed  old  drinker,  whom  he  had 
thought  so  scandalous  a  few  days  before.  He  remem- 
bered the  poor  goose  in  the  wicker  basket,  the  last 
offering  to  Apollo.  On  the  snowy  hair  drops  of  blood 
stood  like  berries,  and  laurel  leaves  enlaced  lay  in  a 
wreath  on  the  priest's  head. 

By  his  side  lay  the  little  body  of  Hepherion,  his 
cheek  resting  on  his  hand.  He  seemed  asleep.  Julian 
thought — 

**  Such  must  Eros  be,  son  of  the  I^ove-goddess,  killed 
by  the  stones  of  Galileans." 

And  the  Roman  Emperor  knelt  in  veneration  before 
the  martyrs  to  Olympus.  In  spite  of  the  loss  of  the 
temple,  in  spite  of  the  stupid  triumph  of  the  mob,  Julian 
felt  in  this  death  the  presence  of  the  god.  His  heart 
softened  ;  even  his  hate  disappeared,  and  with  humble 
tears  he  kissed  the  old  man's  hand.  .The  dying  man 
opened  his  eyes. 

**  Where  is  the  child  ?  "  he  asked  under  his  breath. 


344  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

**  Here,  near  you." 

Julian  gently  placed  the  hand  of  Gorgius  on  the 
locks  of  Hepherion. 

"  Is  he  alive  ?  "  asked  Gorgius,  stroking  the  child's 
curls  for  the  last  time.  He  was  so  weak  that  he  could 
not  turn  his  head,  and  Julian  had  not  the  courage  to 
reveal  the  truth. 

The  priest  fixed  a  suppliant  look  on  the  Emperor — 

"  Csesar  !  I  entrust  him  to  you.  ...  Do  not 
abandon  him.  ..." 

'*  Be  assured  ;  I  will  do  all  that  I  can  for  the  little 
one." 

So  Julian  took  under  his  protection  one  to  whom  not 
even  a  Roman  Caesar  could  now  do  good  or  harm. 

Gorgius  let  his  hand  remain  on  the  head  of  He- 
pherion. Suddenly  his  face  lighted  ;  he  tried  to  say 
something,  and  stammered  incoherently — 

"  Rejoice  !     Rejoice  !  " 

He  gazed  before  him  with  eyes  wide  open,  sighed, 
paused  in  the  midst  of  the  sigh,  and  his  look  faded. 
Julian  closed  the  eyes  of  the  dead. 

Suddenly  exultant  songs  were  heard.  The  Kmperor 
wheeled  round,  and  saw  a  long  procession  marching 
down  the  cypress-alley.  A  great  crowd  of  priests,  in 
dalmatics  of  cloth  of  gold  covered  with  precious  gems, 
deacons  swinging  censers,  black  monks  bearing  lighted 
tapers,  virgins  and  youths  clothed  in  white,  children 
waving  palm-branches,  and  above  the  crowd  on  a  lofty 
car  the  relics  of  Babylas,  in  a  glittering  silver  shrine. 
They  were  the  relics  expelled,  by  Caesar's  orders,  from 
Daphne  to  Antioch.  The  expulsion  had  become  a 
victorious  march.  The  people  were  singing  the  ancient 
Psalm  of  David  glorifying  the  God  of  Israel — 

**  He  is  clothed  in  clouds  a7id  darhiess  !  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  345 

Above  the  meanings  of  the  wind,  and  the  roarings 
of  the  fire,  soared  the  triumphant  chant  of  the  Galileans 
to  the  lurid  vault  of  the  sky — 

"  Clouds  and  darkness  surromid  Him,  fire  tramples 
out  His  enemies  before  Him,  aiid  the  mountains  melt  like 
wax  before  the  face  of  the  Lord,  the  Lord  of  all  the 
earth!'' 

Julian  grew  pale  at  the  audacity  of  joy  resounding 
in  the  last  line — 

**  Let  all  those  who  serve  and  boast  themselves  of  their 
idols  tremble. 
And  let  all  gods  bow  down  before  Him  !  " 

The  Emperor  leapt  upon  his  horse,  drew  his  sword, 
and  shouted— 

"  Soldiers,  follow  me  ! '* 

He  was  about  to  rush  in,  disperse  the  triumphant 
mob,  overset  the  shrine,  and  scatter  the  bones  of  the 
saint,  but  a  firm  hand  seized  the  bridle  of  his  horse — 

'*  Out  of  the  way  !  "  cried  Julian  furiously,  lifting 
his  sword. 

Next  moment  his  arm  fell.  Before  him  stood  the 
stern,  calm  face  of  Sallustius  Secundus,  who  had  just 
arrived  from  Antioch. 

* '  Caesar,  do  not  strike  the  unarmed !     Be  yourself ! ' ' 

Julian  put  back  his  sword  in  the  scabbard. 

His  helmet  scorched  his  head  ;  he  tore  it  off  and 
flung  it  to  earth,  wiping  away  great  drops  of  sweat. 
Alone  and  bareheaded  he  advanced  towards  the  crowd, 
signing  them  to  halt. 

**  Inhabitants  of  Antioch,"  he  said  almost  calmly, 
restraining  himself  by  a  supreme  effort,  '*  know  that 
the  rioters,  and  setters  on  fire  of  the  Temple  of  Apollo, 
will  be  punished  without  mercy.  You  scorn  my  pity  ? 
We  shall  see  how  you  will  scorn  my  anger.     The 


346  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Roman  Augustus  could  blot  your  town  from  the  earth, 
so  that  men  should  forget  that  Antioch  the  great  ever 
existed.  But  I  go  forth  to  war  against  the  Persians. 
If  the  gods  grant  that  I  return  in  triumph,  woe  be  to 
you,  rioters  !  Woe  to  thee,  Nazarene,  the  carpenter's 
son  !  " 

And  he  stretched  out  his  sword  above  the  heads  of 
the  crowd. 

Suddenly  he  fancied  he  heard  a  voice  saying — 

**  The  Nazarene,  son  of  the  carpenter,  makes  ready 
thy  shroud  !" 

Julian  thrilled,  turned  round,  but  saw  no  one.  He 
passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  Was  it  an  hallucina- 
tion ?  At  that  moment  from  the  interior  of  the  temple 
came  a  deafening  noise.  Part  of  the  roof  had  fallen  on 
the  statue  of  Apollo,  which  reeled  from  its  pedestal. 
The  procession  went  on  its  way,  taking  up  again  the 
Psalm — 

**  Let  those  tremble  who  serve  and  boast  themselves  of 
their  idols ^ 
And  let  all  gods  of  the  earth  bow  down  before  Him  /  ' 


XIV 

JULIAN  passed  the  winter  in  preparations  for  his 
Persian  campaign.  At  the  beginning  of  spring, 
on  the  fifth  of  March,  he  quitted  Antioch  with  an  army 
of  sixty-five  thousand  men.  The  snow  was  melting 
from  the  mountains.  In  fruit-gardens  the  leafless 
young  apricot  trees  were  trimmed  with  pink  blossoms. 
The  soldiery  marched  gaily  to  the  war  as  to  a  festival. 

The  dockyards  of  Samos  had  built  a  fleet  of  twelve 
hundred  ships,  wrought  of  enormous  cedars,  pine,  and 
oak  from  Taurus  gorges,  and  the  fleet  had  ascended 
the  Euphrates  as  far  as  the  city  of  lycontopolis. 

By  forced  marches  Julian  passed  by  Hieropolis  to 
Carrhae,  and  thence  along  the  Euphrates  as  far  as  the 
southern  Persian  frontier.  In  the  north,  another  army 
of  thirty  thousand  men  had  been  sent  out  under  the 
generals  Procopius  and  Sebastian.  Joined  to  the  forces 
of  the  Armenian  Arsaces,  these  were  to  lay  waste  Adia- 
bene,  Apolloniatis,  and  traversing  Corduene  rejoin  the 
principal  army  on  the  banks  of  the  Tigris  at  Ctesiphon. 

All  had  been  provided  for,  combined  and  planned 
with  ardour  by  the  Emperor  himself.  Those  who 
understood  the  plan  of  campaign  were  amazed,  and 
not  without  reason,  at  its  wisdom,  simplicity,  and 
greatness  of  conception. 

At  the  beginning  of  April,  the  army  reached  Cir- 
cesium,  a  post  remarkabl}^  fortified  by  Diocletian  on 
the  frontier  of  Mesopotamia,  at  the  junction  of  the 
Araxes  and  the  Euphrates.     There  a  bridge  of  boats 

347 


348  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

was  constructed,  Julian  having  given  the  order  to 
cross  the  frontier  on  the  following  morning.  Late  that 
evening,  when  all  was  ready,  he  returned  to  his  tent, 
fatigued  but  satisfied.  He  lit  his  lamp  in  order  to  re- 
sume his  favourite  work,  for  which  part  of  his  night 
was  reserved.  It  was  a  study  in  pure  philosophy: 
Against  the  Christians.  He  used  to  write  it  in 
snatches,  within  sound  of  the  trumpets  and  camp-songs 
and  challenging  sentries.  He  rejoiced  in  the  idea  that 
he  was  fighting  the  Galilean  with  every  weapon  lying 
to  his  hand ;  by  battlefield  and  book,  by  Roman  sword 
and  Hellenic  learning.  Never  did  the  Emperor  part 
with  the  works  of  the  Fathers,  ecclesiastical  canons 
and  creeds  of  the  councils.  On  the  margin  of  the  New 
Testament,  which  he  studied  with  no  less  care  than 
Plato  and  Homer,  he  would  make  caustic  annotations 
with  his  own  hand. 

Julian  took  off  his  dusty  armour,  sat  down  before 
his  table,  and  dipping  his  reed-pen  in  ink,  began  to 
write.  His  leisure  was  immediately  invaded.  Two 
couriers  had  just  arrived  in  camp,  one  from  Italy,  the 
other  from  Jerusalem.  Their  news  was  by  no  means 
agreeable.  An  earthquake  had  destroyed  the  city  of 
Nicomedia  in  Asia  Minor,  and  subterranean  rumblings 
had  raised  to  the  highest  pitch  the  terror  of  the  in- 
habitants of  Constantinople.  The  books  of  the  sibyls, 
moreover,  forebade  the  crossing  of  the  frontiers  before 
the  year  had  elapsed.  The  courier  from  Jerusalem 
brought  a  letter  from  the  dignitary  Alipius  of  Antioch. 
By  a  strange  contradiction  Julian,  the  worshipper  of 
the  manifold  Olympus,  had  decided  to  rebuild  the 
temple,  destroyed  by  the  Romans,  of  the  one"  God  of 
Israel,  in  order  to  refute,  in  the  face  of  time  and  the 
world,  the  prophecy  of  the  Gospel,  **  There  shall  7tot  be 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  349 

left  here  one  stone  upon  another  that  shall  not  be  thrown 
down  ' '  (Matt.  xxiv.  2).  The  Jews  responded  with 
enthusiasm  to  the  Emperor's  appeal.  Gifts  flowed  in 
from  all  sides.  The  plan  of  rebuilding  was  a  superb 
one.  The  work  was  promptly  taken  in  hand,  and  Jul- 
ian confided  the  general  supervision  to  his  friend,  the 
learned  and  noble  Alipius  of  Antioch,  formerly  pro- 
consul of  Britain. 

*'  What  has  happened  ?  "  asked  Julian,  before  un- 
sealing the  missive,  perturbed  at  the  sombre  face  of  the 
courier. 

*'  A  great  misfortune,  well-beloved  Caesar  !  " 

"  Speak,  fear  nothing." 

* '  So  long  as  the  workmen  were  working  at  the  ruins 
and  demolishing  the  old  walls,  all  went  well.  But 
hardly  had  they  proceeded  to  lay  the  first  stone  of  the 
new  edifice,  when  flames,  in  the  shape  of  balls  of  fire, 
escaped  from  the  vaults,  overturned  the  blocks,  and 
scorched  the  workmen.  On  the  following  day,  on  the 
order  of  the  most  noble  Alipius,  the  works  were  re- 
sumed. The  miracle  was  repeated,  and  so  also  a  third 
time.  The  Christians  are  triumphant  ;  the  Hellenes 
in  despair  ;  and  not  a  single  workman  will  consent  to 
go  down  into  the  vaults.  Nothing  remains  of  the 
edifice,  not  one  stone ! '  * 

*'  Hush,  fool !  You  must  be  a  Galilean  yourself ! ' '  ex- 
claimed the  Emperor.     **  These  are  old  wives'  tales  !  " 

He  broke  the  seal,  unfolded,  and  read  the  letter. 
The  courier  spoke  the  truth.  Alipius  confirmed  his 
words.  Julian  could  not  believe  his  eyes.  He  re-read 
the  message  carefully,  bringing  it  nearer  to  the  lamp. 
His  face  flushed  with  anger  and  shame.  He  bit  his 
lips  and  threw  the  crumpled  papyrus  to  the  physician 
Oribazius,  who  stood  hard  by. 


350  The  Death  of  the  Gods 


tt 


Read  !  .  .  .  Either  Alipius  has  gone  mad,  or  in- 
deed .  .  .     No  !  that  's  impossible  !  " 

The  young  Alexandrian  doctor  picked  up  and  read 
the  letter  with  the  calmness  which  never  deserted  him. 
Lifting  his  clear  and  intelligent  eyes  to  Julian's,  he 
answered — 

''  I  see  in  this  no  miracle.  Scientific  men  described 
the  phenomenon  long  ago.  In  the  vaults  of  old  build- 
ings which  have  been  sealed  from  the  air  for  centuries, 
there  collects  a  dense  inflammable  gas.  To  go  with  a 
lighted  torch  into  these  vaults  is  enough  to  explain  the 
explosion  and  kill  the  rash  workman.  To  the  ignorant 
and  superstitious  this  of  course  appears  a  miracle,  but 
it  is  perfectly  natural  and  explicable." 

He  laid  the  letter  on  the  table  with  a  slightly  pedan- 
tic smile  on  his  thin  lips. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  to  be  sure,"  said  Julian,  not  without 
bitterness.  *'  The  earthquakes  at  Nicomedia  and 
Constantinople,  the  prophecies  of  the  sibylline  books, 
drought  at  Antioch,  conflagrations  at  Rome,  inunda- 
tions in  Egypt,  all  are  perfectly  natural  !  Only  it  is 
odd  that  everything  is  in  league  against  me,  earth  and 
water,  fire  and  sky,  and  even  the  gods,  I  believe  !  " 

Sallustius  Secundus  came  into  the  tent. 

"  Sublime  Augustus  !  Tuscan  wizards,  charged  by 
you  to  ascertain  the  will  of  the  gods,  beg  you  to  wait ; 
not  to  cross  the  frontier  to-morrow.  The  birds  of  the 
oracles,  despite  all  prayers,  refuse  food,  and  will  not 
even  pick  at  the  grains  of  barley  !  " 

At  first  Julian  frowned  angrily,  but  his  face  immedi- 
ately brightened,  and  he  burst  into  a  surprising  fit  of 
laughter. 

*  *  Really,  Sallustius  ?  They  won't  peck  at  anything, 
eh  ?    Then  what  must  we  do  with   these  obstinate 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  351 

beasts  ?  Suppose  we  retrace  our  steps  to  Antioch,  amid 
the  laughter  of  the  Galileans  ?  .  .  My  dear  friend, 
go  back  immediately  to  these  Tuscan  wizards  and  tell 
them  my  will.  Let  the  fowls  be  thrown  into  the  river. 
Do  you  understand  ?  These  pampered  birds  are  not 
pleased  to  eat.  Let  's  see  if  they  will  drink.  .  .  . 
Carry  my  orders." 

**  Is  this  some  jest,  Caesar?  Do  I  understand  you 
rightly  ?  In  spite  of  everything,  we  are  to  cross  the 
frontier  to-morrow  ?  ' ' 

* '  Yes  !  And  I  swear  by  my  next  victory,  and  the 
greatness  of  Rome,  that  no  prophetic  bird  shall  daunt 
me,  neither  water,  earth,  nor  fire,  not  even  the  gods  ! 
It  is  too  late  !  The  die  is  cast.  My  friends,  is  there 
anything  in  all  nature  superior  to  the  will  of  man  ?  In 
all  the  sibylline  books  is  there  anything  stronger  than 
the  words  *  I  will '  ?  More  than  ever  I  feel  the  mystery 
of  my  life.  No  auguries  shall  enmesh  me.  To-day  I 
believe  in,  and  yet  I  laugh  at  them.  Is  it  sacrilege  ? 
So  much  the  worse.  I  have  nothing  to  lose  !  If  the 
gods  abandon  me  I  will  deny  them  ! ' ' 

When  everybody  had  gone  out,  Julian  approached 
the  little  statue  of  Mercury,  with  the  intention  of  pray- 
ing, as  he  usually  did,  and  casting  some  grains  of  in- 
cense on  the  tripod ;  but  suddenly  he  turned  away  with 
a  smile,  lay  down  on  the  lion-skin  which  served  him  as 
bed,  and  extinguishing  the  lamp  fell  into  a  deep  and 
careless  slumber,  as  folk  often  do  on  the  brink  of  mis- 
fortune. 

Dawn  had  hardly  risen  when  he  awoke  in  higher 
spirits  than  on  the  evening  before.  The  trumpet 
sounded.  Julian  leapt  on  horseback  and  rode  to  the 
banks  of  the  Araxes.  It  was  a  cool  April  morning. 
A  gentle  wind  bore  the  nocturnal  desert  warmth  from 


352  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

the  banks  of  the  great  Asiatic  river.  All  along  the 
Euphrates,  from  Circesium  as  far  as  the  Roman  camp, 
stretched  the  fleet,  over  a  space  of  nearly  two  miles. 
Since  the  reign  of  Xerxes  no  such  display  of  forces  had 
ever  been  seen  here.  The  sun's  first  rays  glittered 
behind  the  mausoleum  raised  to  Gordian,  the  conqueror 
of  the  Persians,  killed  in  that  place  by  the  Arab  Philip. 
The  edge  of  the  purple  disk  rose  from  the  desert  like 
a  burning  coal,  and  all  the  tops  of  the  masts  and  sails 
grew  red  in  the  morning  fog.  The  Emperor  raised  his 
hand,  and  the  earth-shaking  mass  of  sixty-five  thou- 
sand men  began  the  march.  The  Roman  army  began 
to  cross  the  bridge  that  separated  it  from  the  Persian 
frontier.  Julian's  horse  carried  him  over  the  bridge 
and  up  a  high  sandy  hill  on  the  enemy's  soil.  The 
centurion  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  Anatolius,  the  ad- 
mirer of  Arsinoe,  marched  at  the  head  of  the  palatine 
cohort. 

Anatolius  looked  at  the  Emperor.  A  great  change 
had  come  over  Julian  during  the  month  passed  in  the 
open  air,  amidst  the  healthy  toils  of  campaigning.  It 
was  difficult  to  recognise  in  this  masculine  warrior,  so 
hale  of  visage,  whose  young  glance  was  brilliant  with 
gaiety,  the  thin  and  yellow-faced  philosopher,  dull- 
eyed,  ragged-bearded,  nervous  in  movement,  with  ink- 
stained  fingers  and  toga,  Julian  the  rhetorician,  who 
had  served  as  butt  for  the  street-boys  of  Antioch. 

"  Hark  !  hark  !     Caesar  is  going  to  speak  !  " 

All  was  silent.  The  clink  of  arms,  the  noise  of 
waves  lapping  sides  of  ships,  and  the  silky  rustle  of  the 
standards  were  the  only  sounds  audible. 

''  Warriors,  my  bravest  of  the  brave,"  said  Julian  in 
his  strong  voice,  '*  I  read  such  gaiety,  such  boldness 
on  your  faces,  that  I  cannot  help  addressing  you  some 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  353 

words  of  welcome.  Remember,  comrades,  the  destiny 
of  the  world  is  in  our  hands  !  We  are  going  to  restore 
the  old  greatness  of  Rome  !  Steel  your  hearts  ;  be 
ready  for  any  fate.     There  is  to  be  no  turning  back. 

* '  I  shall  be  at  your  head,  on  horseback  or  on  foot, 
taking  all  dangers  and  toils  with  the  humblest  among 
you  ;  because,  henceforth,  you  are  no  longer  my  serv- 
ants, but  my  children  and  my  friends  !  If  fate  kills 
me,  happy  shall  I  be  to  die  for  our  great  Rome,  like 
Scsevola  and  the  Curiatii  and  the  noblest  of  the  Decii. 
Courage,  then,  my  comrades  !  and  remember  that  the 
strong  are  always  conquerors  !  " 

He  stretched  his  sword,  with  a  smile,  toward  the 
distant  horizon.  The  soldiers  in  unison  held  up  their 
bucklers,  shouting  in  rapture — 

*'  Glory,  glory  to  conquering  Caesar  !  " 

The  galleys  glided  down  the  reaches  of  the  river. 
The  Roman  eagles  hovered  above  their  cohorts,  and 
the  Emperor  rode  on  his  white  horse,  to  meet  the  rising 
sun,  across  the  cold  blue  shadow,  on  the  desert  sand, 
cast  from  the  pyramid  of  Gordian.  Soon,  soon  was 
Julian  to  quit  the  light  of  day  for  the  long  shadow  of 
the  solitary  grave. 


XV 


THE  army  was  marching  along  the  left  bank  of  the 
Euphrates  ;  on  the  broad  plain,  level  as  the  sea, 
and  covered  with  silvery  wormwood,  not  a  tree  was 
in  sight.  On  all  sides  lay  grass  and  sweet-smelling 
bushes.  From  time  to  time,  troops  of  wild  asses  ap- 
peared on  the  horizon,  raising  clouds  of  dust.  Os- 
triches were  seen  running  ;  and  the  soldiers  used  to 
roast ,  the  delicate  flesh  of  the  bustard  at  their  camp- 
fires.  Jests  and  songs  lasted  till  night-fall.  The  desert 
received  these  soldiers,  hungry  for  glory,  booty,  and 
blood,  with  mute  caresses,  starry  nights,  gentle  dawns 
and  sunsets,  night-coolnesses  breathing  the  bitter  smell 
of  wormwood.  Deeper  and  deeper  they  plunged  into 
the  solitudes,  without  meeting  the  enemy.  Hardly  had 
they  passed  when  calm  descended  on  the  plain,  as  on 
the  sea  over  a  sunken  ship  ;  and  the  grass,  trampled 
by  the  legionaries,  lifted  up  anew  its  soft  spears. 

Suddenly  the  desert  became  menacing.  Clouds  hid 
the  sky  ;  rains  began  ;  and  a  soldier  watering  his 
horses  was  killed  by  lightning.  At  the  end  of  April 
came  the  heats.  Soldiers  envied  their  comrades  who 
marched  in  the  shadow  of  a  dromedary  or  of  a  wagon. 
The  men  of  the  north,  Gauls  and  Sicaml^ri,  began  to 
die  of  sunstroke.  The  plains  became  sad,  bare,  tufted 
here  and  there  with  scorched  grass,  and  every  step  sank 
into  the  sand.  Fierce  gusts  of  wind  assailed  the  army, 
\earing  the  standards  from  their  poles,  and  blowing 
tway  tents.      Then  again  a  calm  was  restored  **  which 

354 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  355 

in  its  strangeness  and  profundity,  seemed  to  the  fright- 
ened soldiers  more  terrible  than  tempest.  Raillery 
and  marching-songs  ceased  ;  but  the  march  went  on, 
day  after  day  ;  and  yet  they  never  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  enemy. 

At  the  beginning  of  May  the  palm-groves  of  Assyria 
were  reached. 

At  Mazeprakt,  where  lay  ruins  of  the  enormous  wall 
constructed  by  ancient  Syrian  kings,  the  enemy  was 
seen  for  the  first  time.  The  Persians  hastily  retreated, 
and  under  a  rain  of  poisoned  arrows  the  Romans 
crossed  the  wide  canal  joining  the  Euphrates  to  the 
Tigris.  This  magnificent  piece  of  engineering,  made 
of  Babylonian  brick,  cutting  Mesopotamia  in  two,  was 
called  Nazar  Malka,  the  River  of  Kings.  Suddenly 
the  Persians  disappeared.  The  waters  of  the  Nazar 
Malka  rose,  overflowed  the  banks,  and  flooded  the  vast 
surrounding  plains.  The  Persians  had  organised  the 
inundation  by  opening  the  sluices  and  dykes  wjiich  lay 
on  all  sides,  threatening  the  friable  wastes.  The  foot- 
soldiers  marched  on,  up  to  the  knees  in  water,  and 
their  legs  sank  deep  into  mud.  Kntire  companies  dis- 
appeared into  invisible  ditches.  Even  horsemen  and 
dromedaries  with  their  burdens  vanished  suddenly. 
The  track  had  to  be  sounded  for  with  poles.  The 
whole  desert  was  transformed  into  a  lake,  and  the 
palm-groves  appeared  like  islands. 

**  Whither  are  we  going  ?  "  the  cowardly  began  to 
murmur.  ' '  Why  not  retire  at  once  to  the  river,  and 
get  on  shipboard  ?  We  are  soldiers  ;  not  frogs  made 
for  dabbling  through  mud  !  ' ' 

Julian  marched  on  foot  with  the  infantry,  even  in  the 
most  difficult  places.  He  helped  to  haul  the  labouring 
chariots  out  of  mud-holes  by  their  wheels;  and  laughed 


35^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

at  his  own  soaked  and  clay-stained  purple.  Fascines 
and  floating  bridges  were  formed  of  palm  stems  ;  and 
at  night-fall  the  army  succeeded  in  reaching  a  dry 
place.     The  soldiers  fell  asleep,  utterly  exhausted. 

In  the  morning  they  saw  the  fortress  of  Perizaborh. 

From  the  tops  of  walls  and  inaccessible  towers, 
spread  with  thick  carpets  and  goat-skins,  to  defend 
them  from  the  shock  of  siege- weapons,  the  Persians 
poured  down  scorn  upon  their  enemies. 

The  whole  day  passed  in  the  exchange  of  insults  and 
projectiles.  Then,  profiting  by  the  darkness  of  a  moon- 
less night,  the  Romans,  in  absolute  silence,  carried  the 
catapults  and  battering-ram  from  their  ships  (which 
had  all  this  way  accompanied  the  march)  and  propped 
these  weapons  against  the  walls  of  Perizaborh.  The 
fosses  were  filled  with  earth,  and  by  means  of  a  mal- 
leolus, or  enormous  spindle-shaped  arrow,  full  of  an  in- 
flammable matter,  made  of  pitch,  sulphur,  oil,  and 
bitumen,  the  Romans  succeeded  in  setting  the  goat- 
skin carpets  on  fire. 

The  Persians  rushed  to  extinguish  the  conflagration, 
and  profiting  by  the  momentary  confusion  the  Kmperor 
ordered  an  attack  by  the  great  battering-ram.  This 
was  a  huge  pine-stem,  swung  by  chains  from  a  pyr- 
amidal tower  of  beams,  and  pointed  by  a  ram's  head  in 
metal.  A  hundred  strong  legionaries,  hauling  in 
rhythm  on  thick  ropes  made  of  ox-sinew,  slowly 
heaved  and  balanced  the  enormous  shaft.  The  first 
blow  sounded  like  the  rumbling  of  thunder.  Karth 
shook  and  the  walls  resounded.  The  furious  ram 
butted  his  metal  head  in  a  swift  and  tremendous  suc- 
cession of  blows  against  the  walls.  There  was  a  great 
crash  ;  an  entire  corner  of  the  wall  had  given  way. 
The  Persians,  with  despairing  cries,  fled  in  all  direr 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  357 

tions  ;  and  Julian,  the  star  of  whose  helmet  glittered 
through  clouds  of  dust,  bright  and  terrible  as  the  star 
of  Mars,  galloped  into  the  conquered  town. 

For  two  days  the  army  rested  under  the  fresh  and 
shadowy  groves  on  the  other  side  of  the  city  ;  the  men 
regaling  themselves  with  a  kind  of  wine  made  of 
palm-juice,  and  amber-clear  dates  from  Babylon. 

Then  they  resumed  their  march  and  entered  a  rock> 
plain. 

The  heat  was  painful.  Men  and  horses  died  in  great 
numbers.  At  noon  the  air  danced  above  the  rocks  in 
burning  rays,  and  through  the  ashen-grey  desert 
wound  the  silvery  waves  of  Tigris,  like  a  lazy  serpent 
basking  his  coils  in  the  sun. 

The  Romans  saw  at  length,  beyond  the  Tigris,  a 
lofty  rock  rising,  rose-coloured,  bare  and  jagged.  This 
was  the  second  fortress  defending  Ctesiphon,  the 
southern  capital  of  Persia.  It  was  a  place  far  more 
difficult  to  take  than  Perizaborh,  and  soared  to  the 
clouds  like  an  eagle's  nest. 

The  sixteen  towers  and  double  enclosing  walls  of 
Maogamalki  were  built  with  the  famous  bricks  of 
Babylon,  sun-dried  and  mortared  with  bitumen,  like  all 
the  ancient  monuments  of  Assyria,  which  fear  not  the 
centuries. 

The  attack  commenced.  Again  the  ungainly  slings 
groaned,  and  the  pulleys  of  scorpions  and  onagers,  or 
frames  for  flinging  stones.  Again  huge  flaming  beams 
hissed  like  arrows  from  their  engines.  At  the  hour 
when  even  lizards  go  to  sleep  in  fissures  of  the  rock, 
the  sun-rays  fell  vertically  on  the  backs  and  heads  of 
soldiers,  stifling  them  Irke  a  crushing  weight.  The 
desperate  legionaries,  in  defiance  of  their  officers  and  of 
increased    danger,    vSnatched    ofi"   their  helmets    and 


35^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

bloodied  armour,  preferring  the  chance  of  wounds  to 
enduring  that  fearful  heat.  Above  the  brown  towers 
and  loopholes  of  Maogamalki,  vomiting  poisoned 
arrows,  lances,  stones,  leaden  bullets,  and  Persian  fire- 
darts  of  choking  sulphur,  stretched  the  dazzling  blue- 
grey  of  a  dusty  sky,  blind  and  implacable  as  death. 

The  heavens  beat  down  the  hatred  of  men.  Besiegers 
and  besieged,  utterly  exhausted,  ceased  fighting.  And 
a  silence  of  noon-day,  more  sullen  than  the  blackest 
night,  fell  on  both  hosts. 

The  Romans  lost  no  whit  of  their  courage.  After 
the  taking  of  Perizaborh  they  believed  in  the  invinci- 
bility of  the  Kmperor,  compared  him  to  Alexander  the 
Great,  and  expected  miracles  from  him. 

For  several  days,  on  the  east  side  of  Maogamalki 
where  the  rocky  steep  was  less  abrupt,  soldiers  were 
set  to  hollow  a  tunnel.  This  mine,  passing  under  the 
walls  of  the  fortress,  led  up  to  the  centre  of  the  town. 
The  width  of  the  passage — three  cubits — allowed  two 
soldiers  to  proceed  abreast.  Huge  beams  at  intervals 
supported  the  ceiling.  The  diggers  worked  gaily. 
The  damp  and  obscurity  seemed  delicious  to  them 
after  the  excess  of  sunlight. 

'*  A  day  or  two  ago  we  were  frogs  and  now  we  're 
moles,"  said  the  soldiers  to  each  other,  laughing. 

Three  cohorts,  the  Mattiarians,  Lactiniarians,  and 
Victorians,  fifteen  hundred  picked  men,  keeping  the 
sternest  silence,  crawled  into  the  subterranean  passage, 
impatiently  waiting  orders  to  burst  into  the  town.  At 
daybreak  the  attack  was  expressly  directed  on  two 
opposite  sides,  in  order  to  divert  the  attention  of  the 
Persians,  and  Julian  himself  led  up  the  soldiers  ''^y  a 
single  narrow  path  under  a  hail  of  stones  and  arrd  7S. 

"  We  shall  see,"  he  said  to  himself  with  glee  at  the 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  359 

danger  ;  "we  shall  see  if  the  gods  preserve  me,  or  if, 
by  a  miracle,  I  shall  escape  death  even  now." 

Some  irresistible  curiositj',  or  thirst  for  the  superna- 
tural, urged  him  to  expose  himself,  and  with  a  defiant 
smile  to  challenge  Fate  to  do  her  worst.  It  was  not 
death  he  feared,  but  only  defeat  in  his  purposeless  and 
intoxicating  game  against  the  higher  powers. 

The  soldiers  followed  him  on,  fascinated  by  and 
catching  the  contagion  of  his  mad  mood. 

Meantime  the  Persians,  laughing  at  the  efforts  of  the 
besiegers,  were  singing  on  the  battlements  songs  in 
glory  of  King  Sapor,  '*  Son  of  the  Sun."  And  from 
the  precipitous  terraces  they  shouted  to  the  Romans  : 

**  Julian  will  scale  the  heavenly  palace  of  Ormuzd 
before  he  gets  into  our  fortress  ! ' ' 

When  the  fire  of  action  had  risen  to  its  hottest,  the 
Kmperor,  in  a  low  voice,  sent  word  to  his  officers  on 
the  far  side  of  the  city. 

The  legionaries  hidden  in  the  tunnel  burst  out  into 
the  interior  of  the  city,  and  found  themselves  in  the 
cellar  of  a  house  where  an  old  Persian  woman  was 
kneading  bread.  She  uttered  a  piercing  cry  at  the 
sight  of  the  Roman  legionaries,  and  was  promptly 
killed.  Then,  gliding  unperceived,  they  threw  them- 
selves on  the  rear  of  the  besieged.  The  Persians  flung 
down  their  arms,  and  scattered  into  the  streets.  The 
Romans  then  rushed  to  the  city  gates,  and  by  the 
double  assault  the  town  was  taken.  From  that  mo- 
ment not  a  legionary  doubted  that  the  Emperor,  like 
Alexander  of  Macedon,  would  conquer  the  whole  of  the 
Persian  Empire  as  far  as  the  Indies. 

Leaving  its  larger  ships  behind  on  the  Euphrates, 
the  army  now  drew  near  to  Ctesiphon,  on  the  river 
Tigris.    But  Julian,  whose  almost  unnaturally  feverish 


360  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

imagination  gave  his  enemies  no  time  to  recover,  made 
practicable  the  old  Roman  canal,  hollowed  by  Trajan 
and  Septimius  Severus  between  the  Tigris  and  the  Eu- 
phrates ;  the  same  channel  that  had  been  filled  in  and 
flooded  by  the  Persians.  By  this  means  the  whole  fleet 
left  the  Euphrates  and  reached  the  Tigris  a  little  above 
Ctesiphon.  The  conqueror  found  himself  thus  at  the 
"centre  of  the  Asiatic  Empire. 

On  the  following  day  Julian  summoned  a  council  of 
war  and  declared  that  the  troops  should  be  transported 
that  night  to  the  other  bank,  under  the  walls  of  the 
capital.  Dagalaif,  Hormizdas,  Secundinus,  Victor, 
Sallustius,  all  seasoned  warriors,  were  terrified  at  this 
idea.  For  hours  they  strove  to  persuade  the  Emperor 
to  relinquish  so  rash  a  project,  urging  the  fatigue  of 
the  soldiers,  the  width  and  rapid  currents  of  the  river, 
the  steepness  of  the  banks,  the  proximity  .of  Ctesiphon, 
and  the  innumerable  army  of  Sapor  ;  the  Persians  be- 
ing certain  to  make  a  sortie  at  the  moment  of  disem- 
barkation.    Julian  would  listen  to  nothing. 

''  Wait  as  long  as  we  will,"  he  exclaimed  impa- 
tiently, **  the  river  will  not  grow  narrower  nor  the 
banks  less  steep  ;  and  the  Persian  army  will  get  bigger 
every  day  we  delay.  If  I  had  listened  to  your  advice, 
we  should  still  be  at  Antioch." 

The  chiefs  left  his  tent  in  consternation. 

"  He  cannot  last  long  in  this  mood,"  murmured  the 
well-tried  and  wily  Dagalaif,  a  Goth  grown  old  in  the 
service  of  Rome.  '*  Remember  what  I  tell  you.  He 
seems  gay,  and  even  laughs,  but  there  is  something 
ill  in  his  expression.  I  've  seen  it  in  people  who  are 
dose  to  despair  or  death.      That  gaiety  augurs  evil." 

The  warm  misty  twilight  descended  rapidly  on  the 
immense  river-reaches.    At  a  given  signal  five  galleys 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  361 

bearing  four  hundred  warriors,  were  unlashed  from 
their  moorings,  and  for  long  nothing  was  heard  but  the 
regular  dip  of  their  mufHed  oars.  Then,  silence.  The 
obscurity  became  impenetrable.  Julian  gazed  fixedljr 
in  the  direction  in  which  the  boats  had  disappeared^ 
concealing  his  emotion  under  affected  cheerfulness. 
The  generals  muttered  among  themselves.  Suddenly 
a  blaze  lit  up  the  night.  Everyone  drew  his  breath, 
and  all  looks  were  turned  on  the  Emperor.  He  uun 
derstood  what  that  blaze  meant.  The  Persians  had 
succeeded  in  setting  light  to  the  Roman  ships,  by 
means  of  fire-balls  hurled  from  engines  on  the  other 
bank. 

Julian  grew  pale,  but  immediately  collecting  himself 
and  giving  his  soldiers  no  time  to  think,  he  rushed  into 
the  first  ship  lying  along  shore  and  shouted  to  the 
army — 

"Victory,  victory  !  Do  you  see  that  fire?  They 
have  landed  and  are  masters  of  the  bank.  I  myself 
ordered  the  cohorts  to  light  the  bonfire  as  a  signal  of 
success.     Follow  me,  comrades  !  " 

*'  What  is  this?"  muttered  the  prudent  Sallustius 
in  his  ear.  **  All  is  lost;  that  fire  is  on  board  our 
galleys.  ..." 

*  *  Caesar  has  gone  mad  ! ' '  groaned  the  terrified  Hor- 
mizdas  to  Dagalaif .  That  wily  barbarian  shrugged  his 
shoulders  in  perplexity. 

With  an  irresistible  impulse  the  legions  dashed  down 
to  the  river,  all  ranks  elbowing  each  other  and  shout- 
ing "  Victory  !  victory  !  "  Jostling,  falling  into  the 
water,  dragging  each  other  out,  the  men  swarmed  on 
board. 

A  few  small  boats  nearly  sank  ;  and  there  was  no 
room  on  the  galleys  to  take  over  all.     Many  cavalry 


362  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

swam  across,  hanging  to  the  manes  and  tails  of  their 
horses.  The  Celts  and  Batavians  flung  themselves  into 
the  water,  pushing  over,  afloat,  their  great  hollowed 
leather  shields.  Through  fog  they  swam,  many  being 
caught  and  whirled  round  in  eddies,  but  regardless  of 
danger  they  too  shouted  '  *  Victory,  victory !  ' '  from  the 
water.  So  great  was  the  number  of  ships  that  the  cur- 
rent was  slightly  broken,  thus  aiding  the  swimmers. 
The  conflagration  of  the  first  five  galleys  was  extin- 
guished without  difficulty.  Then  only  did  all  ranks 
understand  the  Emperor's  audacious  ruse.  But  the 
spirit  of  the  soldiers  rose  still  higher  after  the  avoidance 
of  such  a  danger.     Now  everything  seemed  possible. 

A  little  before  dawn  they  made  themselves  masters 
of  the  heights  of  the  far  bank,  but  hardly  had  the  Ro- 
mans time  for  a  brief  rest  on  their  arms  when  they  saw 
at  daybreak  a  vast  army  sally  from  the  walls  of  Ctesi- 
phon  into  the  plain  round  the  city. 

The  battle  lasted  twelve  hours.  The  Persians  fought 
with  the  fierceness  of  despair.  Julian's  army  here  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  great  war-elephants  which  could 
crush  a  cohort  like  a  tuft  of  grass.  Never  had  the 
Romans  won  such  a  victory  since  the  great  days  of  the 
Emperors  Trajan,  Vespasian,  and  Titus. 

On  the  following  morning  at  daybreak  Julian 
brought  a  grateful  offering  to  Ares,  the  god  of  war.  It 
consisted  often  white  bulls,  beautiful  beasts  like  those 
on  the  old  Greek  bas-reliefs.  The  whole  army  was 
given  up  to  merrymaking.  Only  the  Tuscan  wizards, 
who  at  every  victory  of  Julian's  had  become  more  som- 
bre, mute,  and  enigmatic,  remained  obstinately  sullen. 

The  first  bull,  arrayed  with  laurels,  was  led  to  the 
smoking  altar.  He  walked  slowly  and  passively. 
Suddenly  he  stumbled  to  his  knees,  lowing  pitifully, 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  363 

almost  humanly,  so  that  a  thrill  ran  through  the  spec- 
tators ;  and  then,  burying  his  muzzle  in  the  dust, 
shuddered.  Before  the  axe  of  the  slayer  had  touched 
his  forehead  he  had  reeled  over  and  died.  A  second 
bull  similarly  fell  dead,  then  a  third  and  a  fourth.  All 
paced  weakly  to  the  altar,  seeming  hardly  able  to  stand 
upright,  as  if  attacked  by  some  mortal  malady. 

The  army  was  in  dismay  at  the  presage.  Some  said 
that  the  Etruscan  wizards  had  poisoned  the  bulls,  to 
revenge  themselves  for  the  Emperor's  contempt  for 
their  art.  Nine  bulls  thus  fell,  and  the  tenth,  snap- 
ping his  bonds,  escaped,  and  rushed  bellowing  through 
the  camp  beyond  hope  of  recapture. 

The  ceremonial  became  disorganised,  and  the  augurs 
smiled  among  themselves  a  satisfied  smile.  When  the 
entrails  of  the  dead  bulls  were  opened  Julian,  being 
skilled  in  magic,  saw  at  a  glance  terrifying  omens  in 
the  organs.  He  turned  aside,  his  brow  dark  with 
wrath,  attempting  but  failing  to  assume  carelessness. 

Turning  again  he  approached  the  altar  and  spurned 
it  violently  with  his  foot.  The  altar  reeled,  but  did 
not  fall.  The  crowd  uttered  deep  sighs  and  the  prefect 
Sallustius  rushed  towards  the  Emperor,  whispering — 

'*  The  men  are  looking  !  It  would  be  better  to  cut 
short  the  sacrifice.  ..." 

Julian  waved  him  away,  and  overturned  the  altar 
with  his  foot.  The  embers  were  scattered  and  the  fire 
extinguished,  but  the  fragrant  smoke  still  thickly  as- 
cended. 

"  Woe,  woe  upon  us  !  The  altar  is  profaned  !  '* 
groaned  a  voice. 

* '  I  tell  you  he  is  mad, ' '  growled  Hormizdas,  grasp- 
ing Dagalaifs  arm.  "Look  at  him.  .  .  .  How  is  it 
that  the  rest  don't  see  it  ?  " 


364  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  Etruscan  augurs  watched  the  proceedings,  mo- 
tionless, with  imperturbable  faces. 

Julian's  eyes  kindled  and  he  raised  his  arms  to  the 
sky.     He  cried — 

"  I  swear  by  the  eternal  joy,  locked  here,  in  my 
heart,  I  renounce  You,  as  you  have  renounced  me !  I 
abandon  you  as  you  have  abandoned  me,  impotent 
Deities  !  Single-handed  against  you,  phantom  Olym- 
pians, I  am  like  unto  you,  but  not  your  equal,  because 
I  am  a  man  and  you  are  only  gods  !  .  .  .  lyong,  long 
has  my  heart  aspired  to  this  deliverance  ;  and  now  I 
break  our  alliance,  laugh  at  my  superstitious  terrors, 
at  your  childish  oracles.  I  was  living  like  a  slave,  and 
I  might  have  died  a  slave  !  I  understand  that  I  am 
stronger  than  the  gods,  because,  vowed  to  death,  I 
have  conquered  death  !  No  melancholy,  no  fear,  no 
victims,  no  prayer !  All  that  is  past.  Henceforth  in 
my  life  there  shall  not  be  a  single  shade,  nor  trem- 
bling. Nothing  !  except  that  everlasting  Olympian 
smile  which  I  have  learnt  from  you,  the  Dead! 
Nothing,  but  the  sacred  fire  of  which  I  rob  you,  O 
Immortals  !  Mine  be  the  cloudless  sky  in  which  you 
have  dwelt  till  now,  and  from  which  you  have  died,  to 
give  place  to  man-gods  !  Maximus  !  Maximus  !  you 
were  right;  over  my  soul  your  mind  hovers  still.  .  .  ." 

An  augur  of  ninety  years  old  put  his  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  Emperor. 

"  Speak  lower,  my  son,  speak  lower.  If  thou  hast 
understood  the  mystery,  rejoice  in  silence  !  Tempt 
not  the  crowd.  Those  who  hear  thee  cannot  under- 
stand." 

The  general  murmurs  of  indignation  became  louder. 

"He  's  raving,"  said  Hormizdas  to  Dagalaif 
*  Take  him  to  his  tent,  or  all  will  go  ill]  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  365 

Oribazius,  like  the  devoted  phj'sician  that  he  was, 
took  Julian's  hand  and  began  to  persuade  him  sooth- 
ingly. 

* '  Well-beloved  Augustus,  you  must  take  rest.  There 
are  dangerous  fevers  in  this  country.  Come  into  the 
tent.     The  sun  is  hurtful.  .  .  .  Your  illness  may  get 


worse 


The  Bmperor  looked  at  him  with  a  pre-occupied  air. 

**  Stay,  Oribazius,  I  have  forgotten  something.  .  .  . 
Ah,  yes,  yes  !  .  .  .  It  is  the  chiefest  thing  of  all  ! 
Listen.  Say  not,  '  The  gods  are  no  more,'  but  rather 
*  The  gods  as  yet  are  not.'  They  are  not,  but  they 
shall  exist  ;  not  in  fables,  but  on  earth.  We  shall  all 
be  gods,  all  ;  only  to  become  so  we  must  create  in  our- 
selves such  daring  as  no  man  has  yet  felt,  not  even 
Alexander  !  " 

The  agitation  of  the  army  became  more  pronounced. 
Murmurs  and  exclamations  joined  into  a  general  hum 
of  indignation.  No  one  clearly  understood  ;  but 
everyone  had  a  suspicion  that  something  abnormal 
was  going  on. 

Some  cried  : 

"Sacrilege  !     Set  up  the  altar  again  !  ** 

Others  answered  : 

**  The  sacrificial  priests  have  poisoned  Caesar  because 
he  would  not  listen  to  them  !  Let  us  kill  them  !  They 
are  bringing  ruin  on  us  !  " 

The  Galileans  took  advantage  of  the  occasion,  and 
slipped  about  from  group  to  group,  whispering  and  in- 
venting pieces  of  scandal. 

"  Were  you  watching  the  Emperor  ?  It  is  the  chas- 
tisement of  God  on  him.  Devils  have  seized  him  and 
troubled  his  mind.  That  's  why  he  revolts  against  his 
own  gods.     He  has  renounced  the  One  God  !  " 


366  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

As  if  awaking  from  a  deep  sleep,  the  Emperor  looked 
slowly  over  the  crowd,  and  at  last  asked  Oribazius,  in- 
differently : 

' '  What  is  the  matter — these  shouts  ?  What  has 
happened  ?    Ah,  yes  !  .  .  .  the  altar  upset  !  ' ' 

And  contemplating  the  extinct  embers  with  a  sad 
smile  he  said  : 

**  Do  you  know,  my  learned  friends,  one  cannot 
offend  people  more  than  by  telling  them  the  truth !  .  .  . 
Poor  simple  children  !  .  .  .  Well,  let  them  cry,  let 
them  weep,  they  will  get  over  it  !  Come,  Oribazius,  we 
will  go  into  the  shade.  You  are  right,  the  sun  is  dan- 
gerous.    I  am  tired,  and  my  eyes  hurt  me.  ..." 

Julian  went  slowly  away  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the 
doctor.  At  the  door  of  his  tent  he  made  a  languid  sign 
that  all  should  leave  him.  The  door-curtain  was  low- 
ered, and  the  tent  plunged  in  darkness. 

The  Emperor  went  up  to  the  camp-bed,  a  lion's  skin, 
and  sank  on  it  exhausted.  He  remained  stretched 
thus  a  long  time,  holding  his  head  tightly  in  his 
hands,  as  in  childhood,  after  some  fit  of  anger  or  dis- 
appointment. 

"  Quiet  !  quiet !  Caesar  is  ill  !  "  the  generals  said,  to 
calm  the  soldiers. 

And  the  men  were  immediately  dumb. 
Throughout  the  Roman  camp,  as  in  the  chamber  of 
the  dying,  reigned  the  silence  of  painful  expectation. 
The  Galileans  alone  took  time  by  the  forelock,  gliding 
furtively  hither  and  thither,  penetrating  everywhere, 
hawking  about  sinister  rumours,  and,  like  reptiles 
waked  by  the  sun's  warmth  after  their  winter's  sleep, 
ceaselessly  whispered  : 

* '  Do  you  not  understand  ?  This  is  the  punishment 
of  God  on  him  I  ** 


XVI 

MORK  than  once  did  Oribazius  prudently  lift  the 
door-curtain,  bringing  refreshing  drink  to  the 
sick  man.  Julian  refused  it,  and  kept  asking  to  be  left 
alone.  He  feared  human  faces,  noise,  and  light.  Keep- 
ing his  hands  pressed  against  his  head,  and  closing  his 
eyes,  he  endeavoured  to  keep  his  mind  a  blank  ;  to  for- 
get where  he  was,  to  forget  every  emotion.  The  pro- 
tracted effort  of  will  sustained  during  the  last  three 
months  had  changed  him,  and  left  him  weak  and 
broken,  as  after  a  long  illness.  He  knew  not  whether 
he  was  asleep  or  awake.  Visionary  scenes,  trains  of 
pictures  glided  before  his  eyes  one  after  another  with 
amazing  swiftness  and  intolerable  precision.  Some- 
times he  fancied  he  was  in  bed,  in  the  great  hall  at 
Macellum.  Old  Labda  had  given  him  her  blessing  for 
the  night.  The  snortings  of  the  horses  picketed  near 
the  tent  became  the  dull  snoring  of  Mardonius, 
which  the  boys  used  to  laugh  at. 

He  felt  happy  and  again  a  young  boy,  unknown  by 
anyone,  far  from  the  world,  hidden  amongst  the  Cap- 
padocian  mountains. 

He  smelt  the  fresh  and  subtle  smell  of  hyacinths,  in 
the  first  warmth  of  the  March  sun,  within  the  little 
courtyard  of  the  priest  Olympiodorus.  He  heard 
the  silver  laughter  of  Amaryllis  and  the  murmur  of  the 
fountain,  the  metallic  clink  of  the  cottabos,  and  the 
voice  of  Diaphane  :  "  Children,  the  ginger-bread  cakes 
are  ready  !  " 

367 


368  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Then  all  vanished. 

Then  the  only  sound  he  heard  was  of  the  first  flies, 
humming  in  a  nook  out  of  the  wind,  on  the  white 
warm-sunned  wall,  by  the  sea-shore.  And  he  was 
blissfully  watching  sails  bathed  in  the  infinite  softness 
of  the  blue  Propontic  Sea,  and  he  believed  himself  alone 
in  a  delicious  solitude,  undisturbed  by  a  single  face, 
and,  like  the  little  dancing  gnats  of  the  white  wall,  lux^ 
uriated  in  sheer  happiness  of  living,  in  the  sunlight,  in 
the  calm. 

Suddenly,  half-waking,  Julian  remembers  that  he  ia 
in  the  heart  of  Persia  ;  that  he  is  the  Roman  Emperor  ; 
that  he  alone  is  responsible  for  the  lives  of  sixty  thou^ 
sand  legionaries  ;  that  the  gods  are  no  more,  that  he 
has  thrown  down  the  altar  of  sacrifice.  He  shivers, 
and  an  icy  chillness  invades  his  body.  He  is  falling, 
falling  through  the  void,  with  nothing,  nothing  in  the 
universe  to  arrest  his  fall. 

Perhaps  an  hour,  perhaps  twenty-four  hours,  may 
have  elapsed  in  this  kind  of  half-slumber. 

Then  no  longer  dreaming,  but  in  reality,  he  hears 
his  faithful  slave  saying,  as  he  thrusts  his  head  under 
the  door-curtain  : 

*'  Caesar,  I  am  afraid  of  disturbing  you,  but  I  dare 
not  disobey.  It  was  your  order  that  you  should  be 
immediately  informed  .  .  .  The  chief  Ariphas  has 
just  arrived  in  the  camp.  ..." 

**  Ariphas  !  "  exclaimed  Julian,  rising,  "  Ariphas  ! 
.  .  .     Bring  him,  bring  him  here  quickly!  " 

This  was  one  of  his  bravest  commanders,  sent  with  a 
detachment  to  ascertain  whether  the  auxiliary  army  of 
thirty  thousand  men,  under  the  command  of  Procopius 
and  Sebastian,  was  not  coming,  with  the  troops  of  his 
ally  Arsaces,  to  join  the  Emperor  under  the  walls  of 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  369 

Ctesiphon.  Julian  had  long  been  awaiting  this  help, 
on  which  the  fate  of  the  principal  army  depended. 

'*  Bring  him!  "  exclaimed  the  Emperor  ..."  or  no, 
I  myself  will  ..." 

But  his  weakness  was  not  yet  dissipated,  despite  this 
momentary  over-excitement.  His  head  swam,  he 
closed  his  eyes  and  had  to  support  himself  against  the 
canvas  wall  of  the  tent. 

"  Give  me  wine  .  .  .  strong  wine  .  .  .  mixed  with 
cold  water." 

The  old  slave  rapidly  executed  the  order,  and  gave 
the  cup  to  the  Emperor,  who  drank  slowly  and  issued 
from  the  tent.  It  was  late  in  the  evening.  A  storm 
had  passed  far  into  the  distance  across  the  Euphrates, 
and  the  wind  was  still  fresh  with  the  smell  of  rain. 
Rare  stars,  trembling  like  watchlights  in  the  breeze, 
shone  in  the  gapped  cloud.  From  the  desert  came  up 
the  barkings  of  jackals.  Julian  laid  bare  his  breast, 
held  his  forehead  in  the  wind,  surrendering  himself  to 
the  soft  breath  of  the  sinking  gale. 

He  smiled  at  the  thought  of  his  own  cowardice.  His 
weakness  had  disappeared,  strength  returned  to  him. 
He  was  sensible  of  the  tension  of  his  own  nerves,  and 
felt  eager  to  command,  to  act,  to  pass  the  night  with- 
out sleep,  to  battle  and  play  with  life  and  death,  and 
again  to  conquer  peril.  Only  from  time  to  time  was  he 
conscious  of  shivering. 

Ariphas  came. 

The  news  was  lamentable.  All  hope  in  the  help  of 
Procopius  and  Sebastian  was  lost.  The  Emperor  was 
abandoned  by  his  allies  in  the  middle  of  Asia.  There 
was  even  reason  to  suspect  treason  on  the  part  of  the 
wily  Arsaces. 

At  this  moment  it  was  announced  that  a  deserter 


370  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

from  the  camp  of  Sapor  desired  to  speak  with  the 
Emperor. 

This  Persian  prostrated  himself  before  Julian  and 
kissed  the  earth. 

His  body  was  monstrous.  His  hideous  head  had 
been  disfigured  by  Asiatic  torture.  The  ears  cut  off, 
and  the  nostrils  torn  from  the  face,  made  his  visage  like 
that  of  a  human  skull.  But  the  eyes  were  bright,  in- 
telligent, and  resolute. 

He  was  robed  in  rich  fire-coloured  silk ,  spoke  Greek 
villainously,  and  was  accompanied  by  two  slaves. 

The  Persian  called  himself  Artaban,  a  satrap  calum- 
niated to  Sapor,  who  had  therefore  tortured  him.  He 
had  come  to  the  Romans,  he  said,  for  revenge  on  his 
own  king. 

"  O  Lord  of  the  Universe  !  "  said  Artaban,  with  fal- 
lacious emphasis,  *'  I  will  deliver  Sapor  up  to  thee, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  like  a  sacrificial  lamb.  I  will 
lead  thee  by  night  to  the  camp  and  softly  shalt  thy 
hand  take  the  king,  as  children  take  young  birds  in 
their  snares.  Only  hearken  to  Artaban  :  Artaban  has 
plenitude  of  power,  and  knows  the  king's  secrets." 

"What  reward  do  you  expect  from  me?"  asked 
Julian. 

''  Vengeance  !    Come  with  me  !  " 

**  Whither?" 

* '  To  the  north  ;  through  the  desert — three  hundred 
and  twenty-five  parasangs — then  through  the  mount- 
ains eastward,  straight  on  Susa  and  Ecbatana  ..." 

The  Persian  pointed  to  the  horizon. 

**  Over  there,  over  there,"  he  repeated,  fixing  his 
eyes  on  Julian, 

**  Caesar,"  said  Hormizdas  to  the  Emperor,  "  take 
care  !  .  .  .     I  don't  like  this  man's  face  !    He  's  a 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  371 

sorcerer — a  brigand,  or  perhaps  much  worse  ?  .  .  . 
Sometimes  queer  things  happen  in  these  latitudes.  Get 
rid  of  him!  .  .  .     Don't  listen  to  him.  ..." 

Julian  paid  no  heed  to  the  words  of  Hormizdas. 

He  felt  the  strange  fascination  of  the  Persian's  sup- 
plicating eyes. 

**  Do  you  know  every  step  of  the  road  which  leads 
to  Ecbatana  ?  ' ' 

' '  Oh  yes  !  yes  ! ' '  exclaimed  the  Persian  with  a  con- 
tented laugh.  *'  How  should  I  not  know  it  ?  Every 
grain  of  sand  in  that  desert  .  .  .  every  roadside  well. 
.  .  .  Artaban  knows  the  meaning  of  the  birds'  song, 
hears  the  grass  growing,  and  the  waters  flowing  under 
the  earth.  He  will  run  before  thine  army,  nosing  the 
scent,  tracing  the  road.  Believe  me,  in  twenty  days 
all  Persia,  as  far  as  the  Indies  and  the  ocean,  shall  be 
thine!" 

The  heart  of  the  Emperor  began  beating  violently. 

''Can  this  be  the  miracle  I  was  waiting  for?" 
he  mused.  "  In  twenty  days,  Persia  shall  be 
mine  !  " 

He  could  scarcely  breathe  at  the  thought. 

The  monster,  kneeling  before  him,  murmured. 

''  Hound  me  not  away  from  thee  !  I^ike  a  hound 
shall  I  remain  lying  crouched  at  thy  feet  !  From  the 
moment  I  saw  thee,  I  loved  thee,  Lord  of  the  Universe, 
because  thou  art  the  proudest  of  men !  Oh,  that  thou 
wouldst  walk  over  my  body,  that  thou  wouldst  trample 
on  me,  and  I  would  lick  the  dust  from  thy  feet,  chant- 
ing :  '  Glory,  glory  to  the  son  of  the  Sun,  to  the  king 
of  the  East  and  of  the  West,  Julian  !  " 

He  kissed  the  Emperor's  feet ;  and  the  two  slaves 
prostrating  themselves  also,  repeated  after  him,  ''Glory, 
glory,  glory  !  " 


Z12  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

'*  But  what  to  do  with  the  ships  ?  "  thought  Julian 
aloud  to  himself.  "  lyeave  them  unarmed  in  the  hands 
of  the  enemy  or  keep  them  ?  " 

'*  Burn  them/'  breathed  Artaban. 

The  words  thrilled  Julian,  who  looked  strangely  at 
the  Persian. 

''  Burn  them  ?     What  say  est  thou  ?  " 

Artaban  raised  his  head  and  looked  steadfastly  into 
the  Emperor's  eyes. 

•'Hast  \ho\x  fear?  Thou!  ...  No,  no.  Men 
alone  are  fearful,  but  not  the  gods  !  Burn  the  ships, 
and  thou  shalt  be  free  as  the  wind.  Thy  ships  shall 
not  fall  into  the  power  of  the  enemy  and  thine  army  be 
swelled  by  the  soldiers  that  work  the  fleet.  Be  great 
and  bold  to  the  very  end!  Burn  them,  and  in  ten  days 
thou  shalt  be  under  the  walls  of  Ecbatana.  In  twenty 
days  all  Persia  shall  be  thine  !  Thou  shall  be  greater 
than  the  son  of  Philip,  who  conquered  Darius.  Only 
.  .  .  burn  thy  ships  and  follow  me  !  ..." 

"  And  if  these  are  but  lies  —  if  I  can  read  in  your 
heart  that  you  are  lying  !  "  exclaimed  the  Kmperoi 
seizing  the  Persian  with  one  hand  by  the  throat  and 
with  the  other  menacing  him  with  a  dagger. 

Hormizdas  uttered  a  sigh  of  relief. 

For  some  instants  Artaban  sustained  the  gaze  of  the 
Roman  without  speaking,  and  Julian  again  felt  the 
fascination  of  those  eyes,  so  intelligent,  audacious,  and 
servile. 

**  If  thou  dost  not  believe  me,  let  me  die  by  thy 
hand,"  repeated  the  Persian. 

Julian  relaxed  his  hold,  and  returned  the  poignard 
to  its  sheath. 

*'  It  is  terrible  and  pleasant  to  look  thee  in  the  eyes," 
continued  Artaban.     ''  Thy  visage  is  that  of  a  god  ! 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  373 

That,  as  yet  no  one  knows  ;  I  alone  know  that  thou 
art     .  .  ,  Do  not  repulse  thy  slave,  sire." 

**  We  shall  see,"  murmured  Julian  thoughtfully. 
"  Long  have  I  desired  to  fight  your  king,  in  the 
desert.  .  .   .     But  the  ships  ..." 

**  Oh,  yes,  the  ships  !  "  murmured  Artaban.  *'  Thou 
must  set  out  at  once  .  .  .  this  night  ...  so  that  the 
inhabitants  of  Ctesiphon  cannot  see  us  .  .  .  Thou 
must  burn  them.  ..." 

Julian  did  not  answer. 

*'  Take  them  away,"  he  said,  pointing  out  the  de. 
serters  to  his  legionaries.  "  Keep  them  under  close 
watch  !  " 

And  returning  to  his  tent,  he  halted  and  raised  his 
eyes — 

''  Is  this  true  ?  So  quickly  and  so  simply  !  I  feel 
that  my  will  is  the  will  of  the  gods.  I  have  but  to 
think,  and  it  is  accomplished." 

The  joyfulness  in  his  heart  became  intenser.  Smil- 
ing, he  pressed  his  hand  on  his  breast  to  suppress  its 
tumultuous  beating.  He  still  was  conscious  of  shiver- 
ings,  and  his  head  felt  leaden,  as  if  he  had  passed  the 
day  in  too  fierce  a  sun. 

Ordering  Victor,  an  old  general  blindly  devoted  to 
him,  to  come  to  his  tent,  he  confided  to  him  the  golden 
ring  bearing  the  Imperial  seal. 

*'  To  the  commanders  of  the  fleet,  Constantius  and 
Lucilian,"  Julian  ordered  laconically.  "  Before  day- 
break they  must  burn  the  ships,  except  the  five  largest 
freighted  with  bread,  and  the  twelve  smaller  ones  which 
serve  as  pontoon  bridges.  Burn  all  the  rest.  Any- 
body opposing  this  order  will  answer  for  it  with  his 
head.     Keep  the  most  absolute  secrecy.  .  .  .     Go  !  " 

He  gave  him   a   piece  of  papyrus  on   which  was 


374  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

written  a  curt  order  to  the  commander  of  the  fleet.  Vic- 
tor, as  usual,  astonished  at  nothing,  kissed  the  hem  of 
the  Imperial  purple,  and  went  out.  Julian  then,  in  spite 
of  the  late  hour,  convoked  a  council  of  war.  The  gen- 
erals met  in  his  tent,  moody,  suspicious,  and  secretly 
irritated.  In  a  few  words  Julian  explained  his  plan  of 
going  northwards  to  the  centre  of  Persia,  and  then 
eastwards  towards  Ecbatana,  to  seize  the  king  un- 
awares. All  revolted  against  the  idea,  raising  their 
voices  simultaneously,  and  not  hiding  the  fact  that 
Julian's  plan  seemed  to  them  sheer  madness.  Fatigue, 
lack  of  confidence,  and  spite  were  expressed  on  the  faces 
of  the  oldest  and  wisest  soldiers.  Several  spoke  curtly 
— all  in  opposition. 

Sallustius  Secundus  said,  *'  Whither  are  we  going  ? 
What  more  do  we  want  ?  Think,  Caesar  :  we  have 
conquered  half  Persia.  Sapor  offers  better  conditions  of 
peace  than  ever  Asian  monarch  before  has  offered  to  any 
Roman  conqueror,  even  to  the  great  Pompeius,  Sep- 
timius  Severus,  or  Trajan.  I^et  us,  then,  conclude  peace 
before  it  is  too  late,  and  win  back  to  our  own  country !  " 

"  The  soldiers  are  grumbling,"  observed  Dagalaif. 
"  Don't  push  them  to  despair;  they  're  worn  out  ;  the 
number  of  wounded  and  sick  is  great.  If  you  lead 
them  farther  into  an  unknown  desert,  we  can  answer 
for  nothing.  Have  mercy  on  them  !  .  .  .  And  are 
not  you  yourself  in  need  of  rest  ?  You  must  be  more 
tired  than  any  of  us." 

"  Let  us  turn  back!  "  cried  all  the  generals.  **  To 
go  on  would  be  madness." 

At  that  moment  a  dull,  menacing  sound  broke  out 
behind  the  tent,  a  sound  like  the  rumbling  of  a  furious 
sea.  Julian  leant  ear,  and  immediately  understood. 
It  meant  mutiny. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  375 

'*  You  know  my  will,"  he  said  coldly  to  the  chiefs, 
motioning  them  to  the  door.  '*  It  is  unshakable.  In 
two  hours  we  must  be  upon  the  march.  See  that  all  is 
ready. ' ' 

*'  Well-beloved  Augustus,"  answered  Sallustius, 
with  respectful  self-possession,  "  I  will  not  leave  this 
tent  without  telling  you  what  I  ought  to  tell  you.  You 
have  spoken  with  us,  your  equals  not  in  power  but  in 
valour,  in  a  manner  unworthy  of  a  Roman  pupil  of 
Socrates  and  Plato.  We  can  only  pardon  your  words 
by  setting  them  down  to  a  momentary  weakness  of  the 
nerves,  which  clouds  your  Imperial  understanding." 

**  Is  that  so  ?  "  exclaimed  Julian,  sarcastically,  grow- 
ing pale  with  stifled  anger.  **  Then,  my  friends,  it  is 
the  worse  for  you,  for  you  are  now  in  the  hands  of  a 
madman  !  I  have  just  given  the  order  to  burn  the 
ships,  and  my  orders  are  at  this  moment  being  carried 
out  !  I  foresaw  your  sage  counsel,  and  have  cut  off 
your  means  of  retreat.  Now  your  lives  are  in  my 
hands,  and  I  shall  oblige  you  to  believe  in  miracles  !  " 

All  stood  overwhelmed  ;  Sallustius  alone  pushed 
towards  Caesar,  and  taking  his  hands  cried — 

*  *  It  is  impossible,  Caesar  .  .  .  surely  .  .  .  you  have 
not  .  .  .  actually  ..." 

He  broke  off  the  sentence,  and  dropped  the  hands 
of  the  Emperor. 

All  the  company  stood  up,  listening. 

The  cries  of  the  legionaries  became  louder  and 
louder — the  noise  of  mutiny  came  nearer,  like  the 
sound  of  tempest  over  immense  forests. 

"  Let  them  shout,"  said  Julian  calmly.  "  Poor 
children  !  Whither  will  they  go  without  me  ?  You 
understand  ?  That  is  why  I  burn  the  ships,  the  last 
hope  of  the  cowardly  and  the  idle.     There  is  now  no 


Z7^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

possible  return,  except  by  miracle.  Now  are  you 
bound  to  me  for  life  and  death.  In  twenty  days  Asia 
will  be  ours.  I  have  girt  you  with  terror,  that  you 
may  conquer  all  and  become  like  me.  Rejoice  !  lyike 
Dionysus,  I  will  lead  you  through  the  world,  and  you 
shall  be  the  masters  of  men  and  gods  !  .  .  ." 

Hardly  had  he  pronounced  these  words  when  a  cry 
of  infinite  despair  resounded  through  the  host — 

"  They  are  on  fire  !  .  .   .  they  are  burning  !  " 

The  generals  rushed  out  of  the  tent,  followed  by 
Julian. 

They  saw  the  glow  of  conflagration.  Victor  had 
transmitted  the  Emperor's  orders  literally,  and  Julian 
himself  watched  the  flaming  spectacle  with  a  smile. 

' '  Caesar !  .  .  .  May  the  gods  protect  us !  .  .  .  He 
has  escaped  !  ' ' 

With  these  words,  a  centurion  fell  at  Julian's  feet, 
pale  and  trembling. 

"  Who  has  escaped  ?    What  mean  you  ?  " 

**  Artaban  !  .  .  .  Artaban  !  .  .  .  Woe  be  on  us  ! 
Caesar,  he  has  deceived  thee  !  ' ' 

''Impossible!  .  .  .  And  the  slaves?"  stammered 
the  Emperor,  overwhelmed. 

**  Have  just  confessed  under  torture  that  Artaban 
was  not  a  satrap,  but  a  tax-collector  of  Ctesiphon.  He 
invented  this  device  to  save  the  city,  and  lead  you 
into  the  desert  to  deliver  you  to  the  Persians.  He 
knew  that  you  would  burn  the  ships.  They  also 
said  that  Sapor  was  advancing  at  the  head  of  a  great 
army." 

The  Emperor  rushed  to  the  river-bank  to  find 
Victor — 

* '  Put  out  the  fires  ! —  quench  them  quickly  as  pos* 
sible ! " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  377 

But  his  voice  failed.  Staring  at  the  huge  blaza 
Julian  perceived  that  no  human  force  could  conquer  the 
flames,  which  were  augmented  by  a  violent  wind. 

He  held  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  although  with  no 
faith  nor  prayer  in  his  heart,  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven, 
as  if  there  seeking  succour.  The  stars  were  shining 
above,  faint,  almost  invisible. 

The  mutiny  rolled  on,  becoming  more  and  more 
menacing. 

*  *  The  Persians  have  burned  the  ships ! ' '  groaned 
some,  stretching  their  arms  toward  the  river. 

'*  No,  no,  it  was  the  generals,  to  drag  us  still  farther 
into  the  desert  and  leave  us  there,"  others  cried  in- 
coherently. 

'  *  Kill  the  priests  ! ' '  yelled  some.  *  *  The  Etruscans 
have  poisoned  Caesar,  and  sent  him  mad  !  " 

''Glory  to  Augustus  Julian,  the  conqueror!" 
shouted  the  faithful  Gauls  and  Celts.  * '  Silence, 
traitors !  so  long  as  Caesar  breathes  we  have  nothing 
to  fear!" 

The  cowardly  were  weeping — 

*'  Our  country  !  Our  country!  We  won't  go  a  step 
farther.  We  would  sooner  die.  Ah,  we  shall  sooner 
see  our  own  ears,  than  see  our  own  land  again  !  We 
are  lost,  comrades  !     The  Persians  have  us  in  a  trap  !  " 

"  Do  you  see  clearly  now  ?  "  said  the  exultant  Gali- 
leans. **  He  is  possessed  of  demons.  Julian  has  sold 
his  soul,  and  they  're  dragging  him  to  the  abyss.  Are 
we  going  to  let  a  demoniac  lead  us  ?  " 

And  nevertheless  Julian,  seeing  nothing,  hearing 
nothing,  murmured  as  in  a  dream — 

"What  matters  it?  The  miracle  will  be  accom- 
plished!" 


XVII 

IT  was  the  sixteenth  of  June,  and  the  first  bivouac  on 
the  night  of  the  retreat.  The  army  had  refused  to 
go  farther.  Neither  prayers,  commands,  nor  threats 
of  the  Emperor  had  brought  them  to  reason.  Celts, 
Romans,  Pagans,  Christians,  brave  men  and  cowards, 
all  had  answered  in  the  same  words — 
*'  Let  us  go  back  to  our  own  country  !  " 
The  chiefs  rejoiced  in  secret  ;  the  Tuscan  augurs 
openly  triumphed.  After  the  burning  of  the  ships 
there  had  been  a  general  insurrection.  And  now  not 
only  the  Galileans  but  the  Olympians  and  Hellenists 
were  persuaded  that  a  curse  was  on  the  Kmperor's 
head,  and  that  the  Furies  were  pursuing  him.  When 
he  walked  through  the  camp  talk  would  cease  and 
people  edge  away  from  him  in  fear.  Sibylline  books 
and  the  Book  of  Revelation,  Tuscan  wizards,  Christian 
prophecies,  gods,  and  angels,  joined  forces  to  crush  the 
common  foe.  The  Emperor  then  announced  that  he 
would  lead  his  men  homewards  northward  through  the 
fertile  provinces  of  ApoUoniatis  and  Adiabene.  Ac- 
cording to  this  plan  of  retreat,  while  retaining  a  hope 
of  forming  a  junction  with  the  troops  of  Procopius  and 
Sebastian,  Julian  consoled  himself  with  the  thought 
that  he  was  keeping  within  the  borders  of  Persia,  and 
that  he  might  still  encounter  Sapor's  army,  deliver 
battle,  and  win  a  decisive  victory. 

The  Persians  were  no  longer  visible.     Desiring  to 
weaken  the  Romans  before  a  crushing  attack,  they  set 

378 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  379 

on  fire  their  own  rich  champaigns  of  barley  and  wheat, 
and  destroyed  every  store  and  granary  in  the  country. 

JuHan's  soldiers  marched  through  a  black  desert, 
still  smoking  with  traces  of  fire. 

Famine  soon  set  in. 

In  order  to  augment  the  invaders'  distress  the  Per- 
sians had  broken  the  canal-dykes  and  flooded  the  fields, 
being  aided  in  this  endeavour  by  brooks  and  torrents 
which  had  overflowed  their  courses  owing  to  the  melt- 
ing of  the  snow  on  the  Armenian  mountains.  The 
flood  dried  up  quickly  under  the  burning  rays  of  the 
June  sun,  but  left  the  warm  soil  coated  with  slimy  mud. 
Asphyxiating  vapours  and  the  bitter  odour  of  ashes 
and  of  rotting  vegetation  loaded  the  air  every  night, 
and  befouled  the  drinking  water,  the  food,  and  even 
the  rags  of  the  soldiers.  Myriads  of  insects  rose  from 
corrupted  marshes.  Mosquitoes,  venomous  horse-flies, 
rose  in  clouds  round  the  beasts  of  burden  and  fastened 
themselves  on  the  men.  Their  subtle  hum  went  on 
night  and  day.  Maddened  by  stings,  the  horses  died 
or  stampeded,  the  oxen  broke  their  traces  and  over- 
turned the  wagons.  After  exhausting  marches 
through  defiles  and  fords  the  soldiers  obtained  no  rest ; 
tents  were  no  refuge  against  the  insects,  and  to  get  any 
sleep  the  men  had  to  wrap  their  heads  in  stifling  cloaks, 
while  the  bites  of  a  certain  small  transparent  dung-col - 
Dured  fly  produced  swellings  and  boils  which  gradually 
became  a  horrible  purulent  plague.  During  the  last  days 
of  the  march  the  sun  was  invisible.  The  low,  dense, 
stifling  sky  was  a  white  cloth  of  cloud ;  and  its  motionless 
glare  still  more  painful  to  the  eyes  than  the  naked  sun. 

And  so  they  kept  marching,  wasted,  w^eak,  with 
hung  head  and  feeble  step,  day  after  day,  between  the 
implacable  sky  and  the  black,  burnt  earth. 


38o  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

*' Surely,"  they  thought,  "Anti-Christ,  the  man 
apostate  from  God,  must  have  intentionally  led  them 
into  this  accursed  place,  to  leave  them  to  their  doom. 
Some  murmured,  '*  Curse  the  generals  !  "  but  incoher- 
ently, as  in  a  dream.  Others  kept  praying  and  whining 
like  sick  children,  begging  a  crust  of  bread  or  a 
mouthful  of  wine  from  their  companions.  Many  from 
weakness  dropped  and  died  on  the  road. 

The  Emperor  ordered  the  last  rations  kept  for  him- 
self and  for  his  staff  to  be  distributed  among  the  fam- 
ished rank  and  file.  He  contented  himself  with  a 
thin  soup  of  flour  and  suet,  a  fare  from  which  the 
meanest  soldier  would  have  revolted.  Thanks  to  ex- 
treme temperance,  he  felt  continually  full  of  nervous 
excitement,  and  at  the  same  time  a  lightness  of  body, 
as  if  he  had  wings.  This  lightness  sustained  him  and 
increased  his  strength  tenfold.  He  attempted  not  to 
think  of  the  future.  But  to  return  to  Antioch  or  Tar- 
sus, defeated,  and  to  submit  to  Galilean  ridicule,  that 
he  certainly  would  never  endure. 

One  night  the  soldiers  were  resting,  the  north  wind 
having  driven  off  the  flies.  Oil,  flour,  and  wine,  from 
the  last  Imperial  supply,  had  assuaged  their  hunger. 
The  hope  of  return  gradually  revived.  The  camp  be- 
came silent.  Julian  withdrew  to  his  tent.  Now  he 
was  wont  almost  to  dispense  with  sleep,  or  if  he  slept 
at  all,  it  was  towards  daybreak.  If  by  chance  profound 
slumber  overtook  him,  he  would  wake  terrified,  with 
drops  of  cold  sweat  on  his  forehead.  He  had  need  of 
full  possession  of  consciousness  to  stifle  the  dull  pain 
gnawing  at  his  soul. 

Entering  his  tent,  he  trimmed  the  lamp  with  a  pair 
of  snuffers.  Rolls  of  parchment  and  the  Gospels  lay 
around  him  on  the  ground  in  disorder.     He  began  to 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  3S1 

write  his  favourite  work,  Against  the  Christians,  begun 
two  months  previously  at  the  opening  of  the  campaign. 
Reclining,  with  his  back  turned  to  the  tent  door,  Julian 
was  re-reading  the  manuscript,  when  suddenly  he 
heard  a  slight  noise. 

He  turned  round,  uttered  a  cry,  and  sprang  to  his 
feet.  He  thought  he  saw  a  ghost.  On  the  threshold 
stood  a  youth,  clothed  in  a  ragged  brown  garment 
of  camel's  hair;  a  dusty  sheepskin,  the  "  melotes  "  of 
the  Egyptian  anchorites,  flung  over  his  shoulders. 
His  bare  feet  were  shod  in  sandals  of  palmwood. 

The  Emperor  scanned  him,  waiting,  unable  to  pro- 
nounce a  word. 

**  Do  you  remember,"  said  a  well-known  voice. 
"  Do  you  remember,  Julian,  how  you  came  to  me  in 
the  convent  ?  Then  I  repulsed  you.  But  I  have  not 
been  able  to  forget  you,  because  we  are  singularly  like 
each  other,  singularly  near  each  other.  ..." 

The  lad  threw  back  his  black  hood,  Julian  saw  the 
bright  brown  hair,  and  recognised  Arsinoe. 

' '  Whence — why  have  you  come  ?  Why  are  you  clad 
thus?" 

He  still  feared  lest  this  might  be  some  spirit,  which 
would  vanish  as  unexpectedly  as  it  had  appeared. 

In  a  few  words  Arsinoe  narrated  to  him  her  fortunes 
since  their  last  parting. 

After  leaving  her  guardian  Hortensius  and  giving 
the  greater  part  of  her  wealth  to  the  poor,  she  had  long 
lodged  with  the  anchorites  to  the  south  of  Lake  Mare- 
otis,  west  of  the  Nile,  among  the  sterile  mountains  of 
Libya,  in  the  terrible  Nitrian  and  Sciathian  deserts. 
She  had  been  accompanied  by  the  young  Juventinus, 
the  disciple  of  old  Didimus.  They  had  been  taught 
daily  by  the  ascetics. 


382  The  Death  of  the  Gods 


(( 


And  then,"  asked  Julian,  not  without  a  certain 
apprehension,  *'  and  then,  girl,  did  you  find  among 
them  what  you  were  seeking  for  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  said  sadly — 

"  No.  Flashes  of  light,  allusions,  hints,  as  always, 
elsewhere. ' ' 

•'  Speak  on  !  Tell  me  all,"  implored  the  Kmperor, 
his  eyes  brilliant  with  hope  and  gratitude. 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  she  answered  slowly.  *'  For,  my 
friend,  I  was  seeking  the  freedom  of  the  soul ;  but  it 
has  no  existence  here  ! ' ' 

"  Yes,  yes  !  is  not  that  true  ?  "  cried  Julian,  exultant. 
"  That  was  what  I  told  you,  Arsinoe." 

She  seated  herself  on  a  stool  covered  with  a  leopard- 
skin,  and  continued  her  tale  calmly,  with  the  same  sad 
smile,  Julian  listening  in  an  avidity  of  joy  .  .  . 

*  *  jK  Hi  *  :(c  :^ 

"  Tell  me,  how  did  you  leave  those  unhappy  desert- 
folk  ?  "  demanded  Julian. 

"  I  was  tempted  once,"  replied  Arsinoe  ;  "  once  in 
the  desert  among  the  rocks  I  found  a  fragment  of  white 
marble.  I  picked  it  up  and  long  wondered  at  it, 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  and  suddenly  I  remembered 
Athens,  my  youth,  my  art,  and  you  !  I  awoke,  and  I 
decided  to  return  to  the  world,  to  live  and  die  as  God 
had  created  me  ;  as  an  artist.  At  that  moment  the  old 
Didimus  had  a  vision  in  which  I  was  the  means  of  re- 
conciling you  with  the  Galilean  ..." 

**  With  the  GaHlean!  "  ejaculated  the  Kmperor. 

His  face  darkened,  his  eyes  lost  their  fire,  the 
triumphant  laugh  died  on  his  lips. 

"  Curiosity,  too,  drew  me  again  towards  you,"  con- 
tinued Arsinoe.  '*  I  wished  to  know  if  you  had  at- 
tained truth  in  the  way  you  pursued,  and  what  summit 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  3^3 

you  had  reached.  I  resumed  the  habit  of  a  monk. 
Brother  Juventinus  and  I  descended  the  Nile  as  far  as 
Alexandria  ;  then  a  ship  took  us  to  Antioch  ;  and  we 
have  journeyed  with  a  great  S3Tian  caravan  through 
Apamea,  Epiphania,  and  Edessa  to  the  frontier.  After 
a  thousand  dangers,  we  crossed  the  Mesopotamian 
desert,  abandoned  by  the  Persians,  and  not  far  from 
the  village  of  Abuzat,  after  the  victory  at  Ctesiphon, 
we  saw  your  camp.  And  so  I  am  here !  .  .  .  And 
you,  Julian?  " 

He  sighed,  and  hung  his  head  without  answering. 
Then  scanning  her,  he  demanded — 

"  And  now  you  too  detest  Him,  Arsinoe  ?  " 

"  No  ;  why  ?  "  she  answered  simply.  *'  Why  detest 
Him  ?  Did  not  the  sages  of  Hellas  come  near,  in  their 
teaching,  to  the  message  of  the  Galilean  ?  Those  who 
in  the  desert  martyrise  soul  and  body  are  far  from  the 
humble  Son  of  Mary.  He  used  to  love  children,  free- 
dom, cheerfulness,  and  the  fair  white  lilies  of  the  field. 
He  loved  beauty,  Julian  !  .  .  .  We  have  wandered 
from  Him  and  become  entangled  and  embittered.  All 
call  you  the  Apostate,  .  .  .  but  it  is  they  who  are  the 
apostates  ..." 

The  Emperor  knelt  down  before  Arsinoe  and  raised 
upon  her  eyes  full  of  prayer;  tears  coursed  slowly  down 
his  lean  cheeks. 

' '  It  must  not  be, ' '  he  murmured.  *  *  Do  not  speak. 
Why  ?  Why  ?  Let  be  what  has  been  !  .  .  .  Do  not 
again  become  mine  enemy!  " 

"No,  no!  I  must  say  it  all  to  3^ou,"  exclaimed 
Arsinoe.  ''Listen!  I  know  that  you  love  Him! 
It  is  so,  and  that  is  the  fatality  upon  you.  Against 
whom  have  3^ou  revolted  ?  What  kind  of  enemy  are 
you  for  Him  ?  When  your  lips  are  cursing  the  Crucified, 


384  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

your  heart  is  aspiring  after  Him.  When  you  ar^ 
struggling  against  His  name,  you  are  closer  to  Him, 
closer  to  His  spirit,  than  those  who  repeat  with  dead 
lips,  *  lyOrd,  lyord  ' !  .  .  .  And  it  is  they  who  are  your 
enemies,  and  not  He.  Ah  !  why  do  you  torture  your- 
self more  than  the  Galilean  monks  ?  ' ' 

The  Emperor  tore  himself  him  the  clasp  of  Arsinoe, 
and  stood  up,  pale  as  one  dead.  His  face  again  grew 
restless,  and  in  his  eyes  shone  the  old  hatred.  He 
muttered  with  sorrowful  irony — 

*'  Away  with  you  !  Go  from  me  !  I  know  the  de- 
vices of  the  Galileans  !  ' ' 

Arsinoe  gazed  at  him  in  fear  and  despair,  as  at  one 
insane — 

"Julian!  .  .  .  Julian,  what  is  the  matter?  Is  it 
possible  that  a  mere  name  ..." 

But  he  had  regained  cold  self-possession.  His  eyes 
were  lustreless,  his  air  indifferent,  almost  contemptu- 
ous ;  the  Roman  Emperor  was  speaking  to  a  Galilean. 

"  Depart,  Arsinoe.  Forget  all  that  I  have  said.  It 
was  a  moment  of  weakness  which  is  over.  I  am  tran- 
quil. You  see,  we  must  remain  strangers.  The 
shadow  of  the  Crucified  is  always  between  us.  You 
have  not  renounced  Him,  and  he  who  is  not  His  enemy 
cannot  be  my  friend  ..." 

She  fell  on  her  knees  before  him — 

**  Why  ?  why  ?  What  are  you  doing  ?  Have  pity 
on  me  ;  have  pity  on  yourself,  before  it  is  too  late  ! 
For  this  is  madness.     Return,  or  you  must  ..." 

She  paused,  and  he  completed  the  sentence  for  her 
with  a  haughty  smile — 

"  Or  I  must  perish,  you  mean,  Arsinoe  ?  Be  it  so. 
I  shall  follow  my  road  to  the  end,  lead  where  it  may  ! 
If,  as  you  say,  I  have  been  unj  ust  toward  the  wisdoi^ 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  385 

of  the  Galileans,  remember  what  I  have  borne  at  their 
hands.  How  numberless,  how  despicable  were  my 
enemies !  .  .  .  The  other  day  some  Roman  soldiers 
found  before  my  eyes,  in  a  Mesopotamian  marsh,  a 
lion  tortured  by  flies.  They  had  buried  themselves  in 
his  throat,  in  his  ears,  in  his  nostrils,  choking  his 
breath,  sealing  his  eyes,  and  in  their  stinging  myriads 
had  mastered  even  his  powers  at  last  !  Such  shall  my 
death  be,  and  such  the  victory  of  the  Galileans  over 
Caesar!" 

The  girl  still  held  out  towards  him  her  pale  hands  ; 
but  without  a  word,  without  a  hope,  like  a  friend 
towards  a  friend  who  is  dead.  Between  the  two  lay 
still  that  abyss  which  is  not  to  be  crossed  by  the  living. 

Towards  the  twentieth  of  July  the  Roman  army, 
after  a  long  journey  across  burnt  plains,  found  a  little 
grass  which  had  escaped  from  the  devastators  in  the 
deep  valley  of  the  river  Durous. 

A  field  of  ripe  wheat  was  found  hard  by.  The 
soldiers  reaped  it  and  rested  in  the  valley  three  days. 
Unspeakably  happy,  the  legionaries  threw  themselves 
down  on  the  verdure,  breathing  the  delightful  moisture 
of  the  earth,  and  brushing  the  cool  blades  of  grass 
against  their  dusty  faces. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  the  Roffiss  S€:u- 
tinels  perceived  a  cloud  of  smoke  or  dust.  Some  sup- 
posed it  to  be  the  wild  asses,  which  usually  roamed  in 
herds  for  safety  against  the  attack  of  lions.  Others 
affirmed  that  it  was  Saracens,  attracted  by  the  news 
of  the  siege  of  Ctesiphon.  A  few  expressed  their  fears 
lest  it  should  prove  to  be  the  principal  army  of  King 
Sapor. 

The  Kmperor  ordered  the  call  to  arms  to  be  sounded 


386  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

on  the  bugles.  The  cohorts  in  strict  defensive  order, 
sheltered  by  their  locked  shields,  as  by  walls  of  metal, 
formed  a  camp  half-circlewise  on  the  river  bank.  The 
cloud  of  smoke  or  dust  remained  on  the  horizon  until 
evening,  nor  could  any  divine  with  certainty  what 
lurked  behind  it.  The  night  was  dark  and  still,  with 
not  a  star  in  the  sky. 

The  Romans  did  not  sleep.     They  stood  round  huge 
bivouac-fires  in  mute  restlessness,  awaiting  the  dawn. 


XVIII 

AT  sunrise  they  saw  the  Persians.  The  enemy  was 
advancing  slowly.  Experienced  soldiers  esti- 
mated their  number  at  nearly  two  hundred  thousand. 
Hill  after  hill  unmasked  new  bodies  of  men,  and  the 
glittering  of  the  arms  on  these  detachments,  in  spite  of 
distance  and  dust,  was  almost  dazzlingly  bright.  The 
Romans,  with  hardly  a  word  in  the  ranks,  left  the  val- 
ley of  the  previous  night  and  ranged  themselves  in  bat- 
tle-order. Their  faces  were  stern,  but  not  sad.  Danger 
now  stifled  their  hatred,  and  all  looks  were  fixed  upon 
the  Emperor,  Christians  as  well  as  Pagans  seeking  to 
surmise  from  his  expression  whether  they  might  still 
hope  for  success. 

At  that  hour  Julian  was  beaming  with  joy.  I^ong, 
long,  had  he  awaited  this  encounter  with  the  Persians, 
awaited  the  miracle  in  which  victory  would  give  him 
such  renown  and  power  that  the  Galileans  could  no 
longer  resist.  He  was  haughty  as  one  of  the  old  he- 
roes of  Hellas.  Danger  seemed  to  spiritualise  him  ; 
and  a  gay  and  terrible  light  was  in  his  eyes. 

The  heavy  and  dusty  morning  of  the  twenty- second 
of  July  seemed  the  prelude  to  a  day  of  burning 
heat,  and  the  Emperor  objected  to  wear  a  breast- 
plate, and  remained  clad  in  a  light  silken  tunic.  Vic- 
tor, the  general,  came  up  holding  a  coat-of-mail,  and 
said — 

* '  Caesar,  I  have  had  a  bad  dream  ;  tempt  not  fate  ; 
wear  armour! " 

3«7 


388  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

Julian  silently  waved  his  hand  in  negation.  The 
old  man  fell  on  his  knees — 

*'  Put  it  on  !  Have  pity  on  your  slave  !  .  .  .  This 
battle  will  be  perilous  ..." 

Julian  took  a  shield,  flung  the  light  purple  of  his 
chlamys  over  his  shoulder,  and  vaulting  on  horseback 
said — 

"  Let  me  be,  old  friend  !     I  need  nothing." 

He  vanished,  his  golden-crested  helm  glittering  for 
a  while  in  the  sun,  while  Victor  anxiously  followed 
him  with  his  eyes. 

Julian  disposed  his  army  in  a  peculiar  form,  like  a 
crescent.  The  enormous  half -circle  was  to  bury  its 
two  points  in  the  Persian  mass  and  squeeze  it  inwards 
from  two  sides.  The  right  wing  was  commanded  by 
Dagalaif,  the  left  by  Hormizdas,  Julian  and  Victor 
leading  the  centre.  The  trumpets  sounded.  The  earth 
trembled  under  the  soft  and  heavy  tread  of  the  Persian 
elephants,  wearing  huge  plumes  of  ostrich-feathers  on 
their  foreheads.  Turrets  of  hide  were  lashed  on  the 
back  of  the  beasts  by  thick  thongs;  and  each  turret  held 
four  archers,  who  shot  flaming  arrows  of  tow  and  pitch. 

The  Roman  horse  did  not  stand  the  first  shock. 
With  deafening  roars  and  raised  trunks  the  elephants 
opened  their  huge  moist  gullets.  The  legionaries  felt  in 
their  faces  the  hot  wind  of  the  monsters,  maddened  be- 
fore battle  by  a  special  drink  made  of  wine,  pepper, 
and  spices.  With  foot  spikes  painted  in  vermilion  and 
tipped  with  steel,  the  elephants  disembowelled  horses, 
and  their  trunks  whirled  horsemen  from  the  saddle  and 
dashed  them  against  the  ground.  The  torrid  heat  of 
the  afternoon  raised  from  the  trumpeting  beasts  a  rank 
odour  of  sweat  which  made  the  horses  wince,  rear,  and 
tremble  violently. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  3S9 

One  cohort  had  already  taken  flight.  It  happened  to 
be  a  body  of  Christians.  Julian  pursued  them,  and  strik- 
ing the  chief  decurion  full  in  the  face,  cried  furiously — 

* '  Cowards  !  I  suppose  praying  is  the  only  thing  you 
are  good  for  ?  " 

The  light  Thracian  archery  and  Paphlagonian  skir- 
mishers now  advanced  against  the  elephants.  Behind 
them  marched  Illyrians,  skilful  throwers  of  the  leaded 
javelins,  the  "  Martiobarbuli."  Julian  gave  the  order 
to  aim  arrows,  stones,  and  javelins  at  the  legs  of  the 
elephants.  An  arrow  struck  an  enormous  Indian  beast 
in  the  eye.  He  trumpeted  and  reared,  the  girths 
snapped,  saddle  and  leather  turret  slid  and  upset, 
shedding  the  Persian  archers  like  birds  from  a  nest. 
Confusion  followed  among  the  huge  pachyderms. 
Wounded  in  the  legs  they  staggered  and  fell,  and  their 
squadron  became  little  more  than  a  mountain  of  grey 
masses.  Their  feet  in  air,  their  trunks  bleeding,  their 
armour  smashed,  they  lay  amid  ruins  of  the  turrets,  half- 
crushed  horses,  and  piles  of  Roman  and  Persian  dead. 

At  last  the  elephants  took  flight,  and  rushed  head- 
long against  the  Persians,  trampling  them  underfoot. 
This  particular  danger  had  been  foreseen  by  the  bar- 
barian tacticians.  The  previous  instance  of  the  battle 
under  Nizibis  had  shown  that  an  army  may  be  defeated 
by  its  own  allies.  Now  the  mahouts  began  to  slash 
the  monsters  with  curved  cutlasses  between  the  two 
joints  of  the  spine  lying  nearest  the  skull  ;  a  single 
blow  in  this  exact  spot  sufl&cing  to  kill  outright  the 
largest  and  strongest  of  the  great  beasts.  The  co- 
horts of  Martiobarbuli  charged,  clambering  over  the 
wounded  and  pursuing  those  in  flight. 

At  this  instant  Julian  galloped  to  support  the  left 
wing.     On  that  side  rode  the  Persian  Clibanarii,  a 


390  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

famous  body  of  cavalry,  bound  man  to  man  by  a  strong 
chain,  and  clad  in  invulnerable  scale-armour.  They 
received  the  waves  of  battle  like  a  row  of  bronze  eques- 
trian statues.  They  could  only  be  wounded  through 
narrow  slits  left  for  mouth  and  eyes. 

Against  the  Clibaniars  Julian  sent  his  old  faithful 
friends,  the  Batavians  and  the  Celts.  They  would  die 
for  a  smile  from  Caesar,  gazing  at  him  with  eyes  of 
childlike  adoration.  The  right  wing  of  the  Romans 
was  assailed  by  Persian  chariots,  drawn  by  galloping 
zebras.  Scythes  were  affixed  to  their  axles,  which, 
sweeping  along  with  incredible  swiftness,  mowed  legs 
from  horses  and  heads  from  soldiers,  and  lopped  bodies 
in  half,  easily  as  the  reaper's  sickle  takes  the  corn. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  day,  weighed  down  in  their 
overheated  armour,  the  Clibaniars  wavered.  Julian 
massed  all  his  forces  against  them.  They  broke,  and 
re-formed,  but  their  ranks  at  last  became  confused  and 
fled.  A  cry  of  triumph  broke  from  the  Emperor's  lips. 
He  galloped  ahead,  pursuing  the  fugitives,  not  per- 
ceiving that  he  was  far  in  advance  of  his  main  body. 
A  few  body-guards  surrounded  the  Caesar,  amongst 
them  old  General  Victor.  This  old  man,  though 
wounded  in  the  hand,  was  unconscious  of  his  hurt,  not 
quitting  the  Emperor's  side  for  a  moment,  and  shield- 
ing him  time  after  time  from  mortal  blows.  He  knew 
that  it  was  as  dangerous  to  approach  a  fleeing  army  as 
to  enter  a  falling  building. 

"  Take  heed,  Caesar  !  "  he  shouted.  *'  Put  on  this 
mail  of  mine!"  but  Julian  heard  him  not,  and  still 
rode  on,  on — his  breast  lying  bared  to  drink  in  the 
wind — as  if  he,  unsupported,  unarmed,  and  terrible, 
was  hunting  his  countless  enemies  by  glance  and  ges- 
ture only  from  the  field.     Laughter  was  on  his  lips ; 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  391 

through  the  cloud  of  dust,  raised  by  the  furious  gallop 
of  the  horse,  shone  the  Boeotian  helmet,  and  the  out- 
spread folds  of  his  chlamys  streamed  into  two  great 
wings  of  purple,  that  seemed  to  bear  him  farther  and 
yet  farther. 

In  front,  a  small  detachment  of  Saracens  was  in  flight. 
One  of  these  horsemen,  turning  in  his  saddle,  recog- 
nised Julian  by  his  raiment,  and  pointing  him  out  to  his 
comrades,  uttered  a  guttural  cry  like  that  of  an  eagle — 

''  Makk,  malek!  .  .  .     The  king,  the  king  !  " 

All  wheeled  round,  and  at  full  gallop  sprang  upright, 
standing  on  their  saddles,  their  long  white  vestments 
streaming,  and  lances  poised  above  their  heads.  The 
Emperor  saw  the  bronzed  face  of  a  young  robber,  one 
little  more  than  a  lad.  Riding  rapidly  towards  him  on 
a  Bactrian  dromedary,  from  whose  shaggy  hair  lumps 
of  dry  mud  swung  and  dangled,  Victor  parried  two 
lances  aimed  at  the  Emperor  by  Bedouins.  Then  the 
lad  on  the  camel  aimed,  his  fierce  look  glittering  and 
white  teeth  showing  while  he  cried  gleefully  — 

''Malek,  malek!'' 

"  That  boy  is  happy,"  was  the  thought  that  flashed 
through  Julian's  mind,  "  and  I  too  .  .  .'* 

He  had  no  time  to  finish ;  the  lance  hissed,  and  graz- 
ing the  skin  of  his  right  hand,  glanced  over  the  ribs 
and  buried  itself  below  the  liver.  Julian  thought  the 
wound  a  slight  one,  and  seizing  the  double-edged  barb 
to  withdraw  it,  cut  his  fingers.  Blood  gushed  out. 
Julian  uttered  a  cry,  flung  his  head  back,  fixed  his 
staring  eyes  on  the  pale  sky,  and  slid  from  his  horse 
into  the  arms  of  the  guard. 

Victor  supported  him  with  tender  veneration,  gazing 
with  trembling  lips  at  the  closed  eyes  of  his  sovereign. 
The  tardy  cohorts  in  the  rear  came  up. 


XIX 

THE  Emperor  was  carried  into  his  tent,  and  laid  on 
his  camp-bed.  Still  in  a  swoon,  he  groaned  from 
time  to  time.  Oribazius,  the  physician,  drew  out  the 
iron  lance-head,  and  washed  and  bound  up  the  deep 
wound.  By  a  look  Victor  asked  if  any  hope  remained, 
and  Oribazius  sadly  shook  his  head.  After  the  dress- 
ing of  the  wound  Julian  sighed  and  opened  his 
eyes. 

'*  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  asked  in  surprise  with  a  glance 
round.  Then  hearing  the  distant  noise  of  battle  he  re- 
membered all,  and  with  an  effort  rose  upon  his  bed. 

* '  Why  have  they  brought  me  here  ?  Where  is  my 
horse  ?     Quick,  Victor  ! ' ' 

Suddenly  his  face  writhed  with  pain,  friends  hast- 
ened to  support  him,  but  he  thrust  back  Victor  and 
Oribazius. 

*'  Permit  me!     I  must  be  with  them  to  the  end." 

His  soul  was  struggling  against  death.  Slowly, 
with  infinite  difficulty,  he  tottered  to  his  feet,  a  faint 
smile  playing  on  his  lips,  and  the  old  fire  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  see,  I  am  able-bodied  still  .  .  .  quick  !  give 
me  my  sword,  buckler,  horse  !  " 

Victor  gave  him  the  shield  and  sword.  Julian  took 
them  and  made  a  few  unsteady  steps,  like  a  child  learuv 
ing  to  walk.  The  wound  re-opened  ;  he  let  fall  his 
arms,  sank  into  the  arms  of  Oribazius  and  Victor  and 
looking  up  cried  contemptuously — 

**  All  is  over  !    Thou  hast  conquered,  Galilean  !  '* 
392 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  393 

And  making  no  further  resistance,  he  gave  himself 
up  to  his  friends,  and  was  laid  on  the  bed. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  repeated  softly,  *'  I  am  dying." 

Oribazius  leaned  towards  him,  consoling  him,  assur- 
ing him  that  the  wound  would  heal. 

*'  Why  deceive  me  ?  "  answered  Julian  ;  "  I  am  not 
afraid  ..."  Then  he  added  gravely,  "  I  hope  I  shall 
die  the  death  of  the  righteous." 

In  the  evening  he  lost  consciousness.  Hour  after 
hour  went  by.  The  sun  went  down.  Fighting 
ceased.  A  lamp  was  lighted  in  the  tent,  and  night 
slowly  descended. 

Julian  did  not  recover  consciousness.  His  breathing 
grew  weaker  ;  he  was  thought  to  be  breathing  his  last. 
But  later  his  eyes  opened,  little  by  little  ;  his  look  was 
fixed  steadily  on  a  corner  of  the  tent.  A  rapid  whisper 
broke  from  his  lips  :  he  was  in  delirium. 

' '  Thou,  here,  why  ?  .  .  .  what  matters  it  ?  All  is 
over.  Canst  Thou  not  see  that  ?  .  .  .  Go.  Thou 
hatedst  laughter.  .  .  .  And  so  we  can  never  forgive 
Thee.  .  .  ." 

Then,  regaining  his  faculties,  he  asked  of  Oriba- 
zius— 

*'  What  hour  is  it  ?    Shall  I  see  the  sun  ?  " 

And  he  added  dreamily — 

''  Oribazius,  can  it  be  possible  that  reason  should  be 
really  so  powerless  ?  I  believe  it  is  a  weakness  of  the 
body  .  .  .  blood  fills  the  brain,  creating  phantoms. 
.  .  .     One  must  conquer  .  .  .  reason  must  ..." 

His  ideas  anew  became  confused,  and  his  gaze  re- 
sumed its  fixity — 

"  I  will  not !  Do  you  hear?  .  .  .  Go,  Tempter  ! 
I  do  not  believe  !  Socrates  died  like  a  god.  Reason 
.  .  .    Victor,  ah,  Victor  !  .  .  .  what  do  you  want  from 


394  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

me  ?  Thou,  the  unappeasable,  the  implacable  ?  Thy 
love  is  more  terrible  than  death  .  .  .  Thy  burden  is 
the  heaviest  of  all  .  .  .  Why  dost  thou  look  at  me 
so  ?  How  much  I  have  loved  thee,  Good  Shepherd  ! 
.  .  .  Only  Thou  ?  No,  no  !  The  pierced  feet,  blood  ? 
.  .  .  The  death  of  Hellas  .  .  .  darkness  ?  .  .  .  I 
want  sunlight,  the  golden  sun  ...  on  the  Parthenon, 
marble  !  .  .  .     Wouldst  thou  veil  the  sun  ?  .  .  . " 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  legions  had 
returned  to  camp,  with  no  exultation  over  their  vic- 
tory. In  spite  of  fatigue,  scarcely  any  slept,  all  wait- 
ing for  news  from  the  Imperial  tent.  Many  stood 
sleeping,  leaning  on  their  lances  round  the  half-extin- 
guished camp-fires;  and  the  breathing  of  picketed  horses 
could  be  heard,  munching  captured  forage  of  corn. 

Between  the  dark  rows  of  tents,  faint  white  lines 
showed  on  the  horizon.  Stars  became  yet  more  chilly 
and  pale.  The  mists  kept  spreading,  and  the  steel  of 
lances  and  shields  was  clouded  with  dew.  Here  and 
there  crew  a  cock,  belonging  to  the  Tuscan  sooth- 
sayers. A  calm  sadness  hovered  over  heaven  and 
earth.  The  scene  was  illusive  as  a  miirror  ;  the  near 
seemed  far  off  and  the  distant  came  near. 

At  the  entrance  to  Julian's  tent  stood  a  throng  of 
generals,  friends,  and  familiar  companions,  all  looking 
like  phantoms  in  the  misty  twilight.  Still  deeper  sil- 
ence reigned  within  the  tent.  Oribazius,  the  physician, 
was  pounding  simples  in  a  mortar  to  make  a  refresh- 
ing drink.  The  sick  man  lay  calm,  and  the  delirium 
had  left  him.  At  dawn,  collecting  himself,  he  asked 
impatiently — 

*'  When  will  the  sun  rise  ?  '* 

'*  In  an  hour,"  answered  Oribazius  glancing  at  the 
clepsydra. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  395 

**  Call  the  generals,"  ordered  Julian.  **  I  must 
speak  ..." 

"  Well-beloved  Caesar,  it  may  be  hurtful  ..." 

**  What  matter!  I  shall  not  die  before  the  sun  rises. 
Victor,  raise  my  head." 

He  was  told  about  the  victory  over  the  Persians,  the 
flight  of  the  enemy's  cavalry,  and  of  the  two  sons  of 
Sapor  the  king  ;  of  the  death  of  fifty  satraps.  Julian 
showed  neither  astonishment  nor  gladness.  He  re- 
mained indifferent. 

Dagalaif,  Hormizdas,  Ariphas,  Lucilian,  and  Sallus- 
tius  came  in,  headed  by  the  general  Jovian.  Many, 
with  an  eye  to  the  future,  had  wished  to  see  on  the 
throne  this  weak  and  timid  man,  who  could  be  danger- 
ous to  none.  It  was  their  hope  under  his  rule  to  re- 
cover from  the  anxieties  of  the  tumultuous  reign  of 
Julian.  Jovian  possessed  the  art  of  pleasing  all.  Tall 
and  handsome  in  person,  he  in  no  way  differed  from 
the  crowd,  aiming  at  all-round  benevolence.  Among 
the  intimate  friends  stood  also  a  young  centurion  of  the 
Imperial  horse,  the  future  famous  historian,  Ammianus 
Marcellinus.  Everyone  was  aware  that  he  was  writing 
an  account  of  the  campaign,  and  amassing  documents 
for  a  great  historical  work.  Stooping  under  the  tent- 
door  Ammianus  drew  out  tablets  and  stylus.  A  keen 
and  impartial  curiosity  animated  his  stern  face  ;  and 
with  the  coolness  of  an  artist  or  a  man  of  science  he  pre- 
pared to  take  notes  of  the  speech  of  the  dying  Emperor. 

"  Lift  the  curtain  !  "  Julian  ordered. 

It  was  raised,  and  everyone  stood  aside  so  that  the 
fresh  air  of  the  morning  might  blow  on  the  face  of  the 
dying.  The  door  faced  east,  and  the  view  to  the  hori- 
zon was  unbroken. 

**  Now  put  the  lamp  out." 


39^  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  order  was  executed,  and  the  tent  filled  with 
twilight.     Everybody  stood  waiting  in  silence. 

"  Listen,  friends,"  Julian  began  ;  his  voice  was  low 
but  clear,  his  whole  presence  breathed  a  triumph  of 
mind  over  body,  and  invincible  will  still  gleamed  from 
those  eyes.  The  hand  of  Ammianus  trembled,  but  he 
wrote  down  the  words  uttered.  He  knew  that  he  was 
writing  on  the  tables  of  history,  and  transmitting  to 
men  unborn  the  last  words  of  a  great  man. 

"  Listen,  friends;  my  hour  is  come,  perhaps  too  soon. 
But  you  see,  like  an  honest  debtor,  I  am  not  sorry  to 
give  back  my  life  to  Nature,  and  in  my  soul  is  neither 
pain  nor  fear  ;  nothing  but  cheerfulness,  and  a  fore- 
feeling  of  the  long  repose.  I  have  simply  done  my 
duty,  and  have  nothing  to  repent  of.  From  the  days 
when  I  daily  expected  death,  like  a  hunted  beast,  in 
the  palace  of  Macellum,  in  Cappadocia,  up  to  the  day 
of  greatness  when  I  took  on  the  purple  of  the  Roman 
Caesar,  I  have  tried  to  keep  my  soul  stainless,  I  have 
aspired  to  ends  not  ignoble.  If  I  have  failed — and  I 
have  failed — to  do  all  that  I  desired,  you  will  not  for- 
get that  most  of  our  earthly  affairs  are  in  the  hands  of 
Destiny.  And  now  I  thank  the  Eternal  for  having 
allowed  me  to  die  neither  after  long  sickness  nor  at  the 
hands  of  the  executioner,  but  on  the  battlefield — in 
mid-youth — in  mid-endeavour,  half-way  to  achieve- 
ment .  .  .     And  dear,  dear  friends  ..." 

His  voice  ceased  ;  everyone  present  knelt  down  ; 
many  were  weeping. 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  friends,"  said  Julian  smiling  ; 
**  why  weep  for  those  who  are  going  back  to  their  own 
country  ?    Take  heart,  Victor  !  " 

The  old  man  tried  to  answer,  but  in  vain  ;  then  hid- 
ing his  face  in  his  hands,  he  sobbed  aloud. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  397 


(( 


Soft !  Soft  ! ' '  cried  Julian  ;  and  then  turning 
toward  the  sky  :  ''  Ah,  there  He  is  !  " 

The  morning  clouds  were  growing  rosy,  and  the  twi- 
light in  the  tent  had  become  warm  and  mellow  ;  the 
first  beam  of  the  sun  washed  over  the  rim  of  the  hori- 
zon. The  dying  man  held  his  face  towards  the  light, 
with  closed  eyes. 

Then  Sallustius  Secundus  went  up  to  Julian  and 
kissing  his  hand  said — 

"  Well-beloved  Augustus  !  whom  do  you  name  as 
your  successor  ?  ' ' 

*'  What  matters  it  ?  Let  Destiny  decide  !  We  must 
not  resist  her.  Let  the  Galileans  triumph.  We  shall 
conquer  later  on.  And  then  shall  begin  on  earth  the 
reign  of  the  equals  of  the  gods,  souls  laughing  for  ever 
like  the  sun  .  .  .     Look,  behold  him  !  " 

A  faint  shiver  ran  through  his  body,  and  with  a  last 
effort  Julian  stretched  out  his  arms,  as  if  he  would  have 
rushed  to  meet  the  rising  orb.  Blood  gushed  from  his 
wound,  and  the  veins  swelled  on  neck  and  temples. 

' '  Water  !  water !  "  he  whispered,  choking. 

Victor  lifted  a  golden  cup  of  spring-water  to  his 
mouth.  Julian,  looking  forth  from  the  tent  drank 
thirstily  of  the  ice-cold  draught.  Then  his  head  fell 
back,  and  the  last  murmur  came  from  his  half-open 
lips — 

**  Helios  !  receive  me  into  thyself  ..." 

The  eyes  went  out.  Victor  closed  their  lids.  The 
face  of  the  Emperor,  lying  in  the  sun-rays,  took  on  a 
look  of  one  of  the  Olympians  sleeping. 


XX 


THRKK  months  had  elapsed  since  the  shameful 
treaty  of  peace  signed  by  Jovian  with  the  Per- 
sians. At  the  beginning  of  October  the  Roman  army, 
exhausted  by  famine  and  forced  marches  through  the 
deserts  of  Mesopotamia,  had  at  last  reached  Antioch. 
During  this  melancholy  retreat  Anatolius,  the  cen- 
turion of  Imperial  cavalry,  had  formed  a  close  friend- 
ship with  the  historian,  Ammianus  Marcellinus.  The 
two  friends  had  decided  to  betake  themselves  to  Italy, 
to  a  secluded  villa  at  Baiae,  whither  Arsinoe  had  in- 
vited them,  to  rest  from  the  fatigues  of  the  campaign, 
and  to  heal  their  wounds  at  the  sulphur-baths. 

On  this  journey,  they  had  made  a  halt  of  some  days 
at  Antioch,  where  great  festivals  were  in  preparation, 
in  honour  of  Jovian' s  accession  to  the  throne  and  of  the 
return  of  the  army. 

The  peace  concluded  with  King  Sapor  was  dishon- 
ourable for  the  Empire.  Five  rich  Roman  provinces 
lying  along  the  farther  banks  of  the  Tigris,  together 
with  fifteen  frontier  fortresses,  including  Singara, 
Castra  Maurorum,  and  the  invincible  Nizibis,  all  these 
passed  into  the  hands  of  Sapor.  Little  did  the  Gali- 
leans care  for  the  defeat  of  Rome.  When  the  news  of 
Julian's  death  arrived  at  Antioch,  the  timorous  citizens 
believed  at  first  that  it  was  some  new  device  of  Satan, 
fresh  toils  in  which  to  capture  the  righteous.  But  when 
the  news  was  confirmed  their  joy  became  delirious. 

In  the  early  morning  the  noise  of  festival  and  the 
298 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  399 

cries  of  the  people  reached  the  sleeping-chamber  of  Ana- 
tolius.  He  had  decided  to  pass  all  day  indoors,  the  re- 
joicing of  the  populace  being  repugnant  to  him.  He 
attempted  to  sleep  again,  and  failed.  A  strange  curios- 
ity woke  in  him.  Without  a  word  to  Ammianus,  he 
dressed  quickly,  and  went  out  into  the  street.  It  was 
a  fresh  and  pleasant  autumn  morning. 

Great  round  clouds,  in  sharp  contrast  with  the  deep 
blue  of  the  sky,  sailed  over  the  innumerable  colonnades 
and  marble  porticoes  of  Antioch.  In  the  forum  and 
the  markets  everywhere  ran  the  murmur  of  fountains 
and  streams  ;  and  down  the  long  dusty  vistas  of  the 
bright  streets  flowed  wide  currents,  artificially-chan- 
nelled waters,  crossing  each  other  in  a  perfect  network 
of  rills.  Here  and  there  pigeons  were  cooing  and 
picking  grains  of  barley.  The  scent  of  flowers  and  in- 
cense issued  from  the  open  doors  of  churches.  Near 
the  fountain-basins  young  girls  were  sprinkling  their 
baskets  of  pale  October  roses  with  water,  or  singing 
joyful  psalms,  and  garlanding  the  columns  of  the 
Christian  basilicas.  A  noisy  crowd  was  pouring 
through  the  streets.  Chariots  and  litters  were  forging 
slowly  down  the  middle  of  the  pavements.  At  every 
moment  rose  cries  of — 

"  Hail  to  Jovian  Augustus,  the  great  and  happy  !  " 

Some  added  :  * '  The  conqueror, ' '  but  with  a  certain 
diffidence,  as  if  the  word  smacked  of  irony. 

The  same  urchin  who  had  once  caricatured  Julian  on 
the  walls  of  the  town  was  there  now  clapping  his  hands, 
beating  his  drum,  whistling,  tumbling  in  the  dust,  and 
shouting  (although  he  had  no  notion  of  the  meaning 
of  the  words) — 

**  The  Wild  Boar  has  perished,  the  Devastator  of  the 
Garden  of  Kden  !  " 


400  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

An  old  woman,  bent  double  in  her  rags,  came  out 
like  a  black-beetle  into  the  sun,  rejoicing  with  the  rest. 
She  was  brandishing  a  stick  and  vociferating  in  a 
cracked  voice — 

"  Julian  has  perished  !  The  evil-doer  has  perished  !  " 

An  infinite  sadness  filled  the  heart  of  Anatolius;  but 
urged  by  curiosity  he  wandered  on,  and  in  following 
the  Syngon,  approached  the  cathedral.  There  he  saw  an 
official  connected  with  the  quaestorship,  Marcus  Avinius, 
coming  out  of  the  basilica,  accompanied  by  two  slaves, 
who  elbowed  a  passage  for  him  through  the  crowd. 

''What  is  this?"  wondered  Anatolius.  "Why 
should  this  enemy  of  the  Galileans  be  here  ?  ' ' 

Crosses  embroidered  in  gold  adorned  the  violet 
chlamys  of  Avinius,  and  were  even  sewn  on  his  crim- 
son leather  shoes. 

Julius  Mauricus,  another  friend  of  Anatolius,  ac- 
costed Avinius — 

* '  How  do  you  do,  my  reverend  friend  ?  "  he  asked, 
after  a  surprised  and  mocking  scrutiny  of  the  digni- 
tary's new  costume. 

Julius  was  a  free  man,  having  an  independent  for- 
tune ;  and  for  him  the  change  of  religion  was  a  matter 
of  indifference.  He  was  by  no  means  surprised  at  the 
transformation  of  his  official  friends,  but  took  pleasure 
in  putting  teasing  questions  whenever  he  met  them, 
assuming  the  air  of  a  moralist  who  concealed  indigna- 
tion under  the  mask  of  irony. 

The  people  were  hurrying  to  the  entrance  of  the 
church,  and  upon  the  deserted  steps  outside  the  friends 
were  soon  able  to  talk  freely.  Anatolius,  ensconced 
behind  a  column,  listened  to  the  dialogue — 

"  Why  did  n't  you  stay  to  the  end  of  the  service  ?  " 
asked  Mauricus. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  401 

"  Palpitations.  I  was  half-stifled.  I  'm  not  accus- 
tomed ..."  and  Avinius  added  thoughtfully — 

' '  The  new  preacher  has  an  extraordinary  style.  His 
exaggerations  act  too  violently  on  my  nerves.  A  style 
.  .  .  like  the  scratching  of  iron  on   glass  ! ' ' 

''  Really,  how  touching  !  "  laughed  Mauricus. 
**  Here  's  a  man  who  has  abjured  conscience  !  .  .  . 
But  slyle  .  .  ." 

*'  No,  no  ;  perhaps  I  did  n't  understand  him  well !  " 
interrupted  Avinius.  ''Don't  disbelieve  it!  Mauri- 
cus, I  am  sincere." 

From  a  downy  litter  the  head  of  the  chancery  him- 
self, Garguillus,  got  out,  groaning — 

"  I  think  I  'm  late  .  .  .  But  that 's  of  no  great  im- 
portance; I  '11  remain  on  the  space  outside  .  .  .  God 
and  the  Holy  Ghost  ..." 

"Here  's  another  miracle!"  laughed  Mauricus. 
"  Texts  from  the  Bible,  in  the  mouth  of  Garguillus  !  " 

"  May  Christ  forgive  you,  my  son  !  "  quoth  that  im- 
perturbable quaestor  ;  ' '  what  are  you  always  racking 
your  soul  about?  " 

"  Oh,  but  up  to  now  I  have  n't  been  able  quite  to  get 
over  it  I  There  are  so  many  conversions,  so  many 
transformations  I  I  had  always  imagined  that  your 
opinions  ..." 

*'  Pure  stupidity,  my  dear  son  !  I  have  only  one 
opinion,  which  is,  that  the  Galilean  cooks  are  no  worse 
than  the  Hellenist  cooks.  The  Hellenists  put  me  on  a 
lenten  diet  .  .  .  which  would  make  anybody  ill  .  .  . 
Come  and  dine,  O  philosopher,  and  I  '11  bring  you  over 
to  my  belief.  You  will  lick  your  fingers  after  it  I 
And,  after  all,  is  n't  it  the  same  thing  to  eat  a  good 
dinner  in  honour  of  the  god  Hermes,  and  to  eat 
it  in  honour  of  St.  Mercurius  ?    All  these  things  are 


402  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

prejudices.  I  don't  see  anything  irritating  in  trijfles 
like  this."  And  he  pointed  to  the  little  amber 
cross,  which  dangled  amidst  the  perfumed  folds  of 
an  amethystine-purple  robe,  upon  his  enormous 
belly. 

**  lyook,  there  's  Hekobolis,  the  arch-priest  of  the 
goddess  Astarte-Dindymene  !  The  hierophant  has  re- 
pented, and  is  now  in  black  Galilean  vestments  again  ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  Ovid,  smg&v  oi  Metamorphoses,  why  art  thou 
not  here  ?  "  chanted  Mauricus,  pointing  to  an  old  man 
with  a  red  face  seated  in  a  covered  litter — 

**  What  's  he  reading  ?  " 

"  It  surely  can't  be  the  laws  of  the  goddess  of  Pes- 
sinus!  " 

"  What  divine  humility!  .  .  .  Fasting  has  thinned 
him  !  .  .  .  Look  how  he  's  sighing  and  throwing  up 
his  eyes  ! ' ' 

"  Do  you  know  the  story  of  his  conversion  ?  "  asked 
Garguillus  with  a  cheerful  laugh. 

'*  He  went  to  find  Jovian,  the  Emperor,  and  I  sup- 
pose, as  formerly  with  Julian,  fell  at  his  feet  ..." 

**  Oh,  no  !  he  invented  something  entirely  new. 
There  was  a  sudden  public  repentance.  He  prostrated 
himself  at  the  door  of  a  church,  just  as  Jovian  was 
coming  out,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  crowd,  Hekobolis 
shouted  *  Trample  on  me  !  trample  on  me  !  I  am  Dead- 
Sea  fruit! '  and,  with  tears,  kissed  the  feet  of  the  passers- 
by." 

'*  Ah  .  .  .  that  's  new  !     And  was  it  successful  ?  " 

"  By  Jove  !  he  had  a  private  interview  with  the  Em- 
peror. Oh,  people  like  him  have  got  nine  lives ! 
Everything  turns  to  gold  in  their  fingers.  When  they 
slough  the  old  skin,  they  get  young  again.  lyearn. 
my  children  ..." 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  403 

**  And  what  did  he  manage  to  say  to  the  Emperor  ?  " 

* '  How  can  I  tell  ?  ' '  sighed  Garguillus,  not  without 
a  certain  secret  jealousy.  *'  He  may  have  said  per- 
haps, *  Cling  to  Christianity  till  not  a  Pagan  be  left 
upon  earth  !  The  religion  of  the  just  is  the  basis  of 
your  throne  ! '  Now  his  fortune  is  made  ;  and  far  more 
securely  than  in  the  time  of  Julian.  What  exquisite 
sagacity  !  " 

**  Oh,  my  benefactors,  protect  me  !  Snatch  Cicum- 
brix,  the  humblest  of  your  slaves,  from  the  claws  of 
the  lions!" 

**  What  's  happened  ?  "  asked  Garguillus  of  the  con- 
sumptive shoemaker,  who  was  being  dragged  oflF  by 
two  of  the  town  police. 

*'  They  're  going  to  throw  me  into  prison!  " 

*' Why?" 

''  For  pillaging  a  church  .  .  .** 

"What?    You  have  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no  !  I  was  in  the  crowd,  and  I  just  cried  out 
once  or  twice  '  Beat  them  ! '  That  was  under  Augus- 
tus Julian.  Then  they  said,  '  Caesar  desires  that  the 
Christian  churches  shall  be  destroyed.'  But  I  did  n't 
go  into  the  church  ;  I  stayed  outside.  My  shop  is  a 
wretched  little  place  ;  but  it  's  on  a  crowded  square, 
and  if  anything  happens  I  'm  always  lugged  up  as  a 
witness.     O  defend  me  !     Have  pity  on  me  !  " 

"  Are  you  a  Christian  or  a  Pagan  ?  "  asked  Julius. 

**  I  don't  know  myself.  Before  Constantine's  time  I 
sacrificed  to  the  gods.  Then  I  was  baptised.  Then, 
under  Constantius,  I  became  an  Arian.  Afterwards  I 
had  to  become  a  Hellenist.  Now  I  want  to  be  an 
Arian  again  ;  but  it  's  all  mixed  up  in  my  head  !  I 
obey  orders,  and  I  never  can  happen  to  profess  the  true 
religion  at  the  right  time.     I  have  fought  for  Christ, 


404  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

and  also  for  the  gods.  .  .  .  But  it 's  always  either  too 
soon  or  too  late  !  One  gets  no  rest  ...  I  have  child- 
ren. .  .  .     Protect  me,  benefactors  !  " 

"  Fear  nothing,  my  friend;  we  will  get  you  oflf.  I 
remember  you  once  made  me  a  handsome  pair  of 
shoes." 

Anatolius,  unperceived  by  his  friends,  now  went  into 
the  church,  desiring  to  hear  Theodorite,  the  young  and 
celebrated  preacher.  The  sun  was  shining  through 
clouds  of  incense,  and  one  of  the  slanting  rays  fell  on 
the  red  beard  of  the  speaker  in  the  pulpit.  His  frail 
hands  were  transparent  as  wax  ;  his  exultant  eyes 
feverishly  bright,  and  his  thrilling  voice  thundered  in 
an  avenging  cry. 

'*  I  desire  to  write,  as  on  a  sign-post  of  infamy  for 
future  generations,  the  history  of  Julian,  the  foul  rene- 
gade. May  all  ages  and  peoples  read  my  inscription, 
and  tremble  before  the  justice  of  the  Lord!  .  .  .  Come 
hither,  torturer,  serpent  of  wisdom,  to-day  we  will 
scoff  at  thee  !  Together,  my  brothers,  let  us  rejoice  ; 
let  us  sound  our  timbrels,  and  chant  the  chant  of 
Miriam  over  the  destruction  of  the  Egyptians  in  the 
Red  Sea.  O  Emperor  !  where  are  thy  ceremonies,  thy 
mysteries  ?  Where  now  are  thy  invocations  and  thy 
divinations  ?  Where  are  thy  Persian  and  Babylonish 
glories  ?  Where  are  the  gods  that  accompanied  thee — 
thy  defenders,  Julian  ?  All  have  deceived  thee,  all 
have  vanished!  " 

* '  Ah,  my  dear  !  What  a  beard  he  has  ! ' '  said  an 
ancient  rouged  patrician  lady,  standing  near  Anatolius, 
to  her  neighbour.  '*  It 's  a  sort  of  gold,  of  brown-gold 
colour  ! ' ' 

**  Yes,  but  how  about  his  teeth?"  answered  the 
other. 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  405 

**  What— teeth  ?  With  a  beard  like  that,  teeth  are 
nothing ! " 

"  No !  ah  no,  Veronica,  don't  say  that !  Can  one 
compare  him  with  brother  Tiphanius  ..." 

Theodorite  continued — 

'*  Julian  bred  evil  in  his  soul  as  wild  beasts  secrete 
venom.  God  waited  till  all  his  cruelty  was  manifest, 
to  strike  him  ..." 

"  Don't  miss  the  circus  to-day,"  murmured  another 
neighbour  of  Anatolius  into  the  ear  of  his  companion. 
'*  There  are  going  to  be  she-bears  from  Britain." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !     Real  ones  ?  " 

*'  Yes.  One  's  called  Mica  Aurea  (grain  of  gold), 
and  the  other  Innocentia  !  They  're  fed  on  human 
flesh.     And  then,  there  '11  be  the  gladiators  !  " 

*'  Lord  Jesus  !  ...  we  must  n't  miss  that !  I^t  's 
not  wait  for  the  end  !  I^et  's  run,  in  order  to  get  a  seat 
in  time  !  " 

Meantime  Theodorite  was  praising  Julian's  predeces- 
sor for  his  Christian  benevolence,  pure  life,  and  love 
for  all  his  family. 

Anatolius  felt  choked  by  the  crowd.  He  went  out 
of  the  church,  and  once  quit  of  the  smell  of  incense 
and  oil,  drew  a  deep  breath  of  fresh  air  under  the  blue 
sky. 

Outside  the  church  portico  a  loud  conversation  was 
going  on  undisturbed.  A  grave  rumour  was  circulat- 
ing in  the  crowd  ;  the  two  she-bears  were  being  led 
through  the  streets  to  the  amphitheatre.  Those  who 
heard  the  news  precipitately  left  the  church  before  the 
end  of  the  sermon,  asking  each  other  anxiously — 

''Are  we  still  in  time  ?     Is  Mica  Aurea  ill  ?  " 

"  No,  it  's  Innocentia  who  had  a  fit  of  indigestion 
to-day.     But  now  she  's  going  on  quite  well.'* 


4o6  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

"  Thank  God  .  .  .  thank  God  !  " 

The  church  quickly  emptied.  Anatolius  saw  pant- 
ing multitudes  running  in  the  direction  of  the  circus 
from  every  street,  from  every  alley,  from  every  basil- 
ica. They  crushed  each  other,  trampled  on  women 
and  children,  hurled  abuse,  lost  their  sandals,  but  halted 
for  nothing  in  the  race.  Every  face  wore  a  careworn 
expression  denoting  that  life  depended  on  getting  a 
seat  in  the  amphitheatre.  Two  names  full  of  sanguin- 
ary promise  passed  from  lip  to  lip — 

*'  Mica  Aurea  !     Innocentia  !  " 

Anatolius  followed  the  crowd  into  the  amphitheatre. 

According  to  the  Roman  custom  a  vast  awning,  the 
velarium,  sprinkled  with  perfume,  protected  the  people 
against  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  spread  a  pleasant  cool- 
ness. Thousands  of  heads  already  swarmed  round  the 
circus. 

Before  the  opening  of  the  games,  the  highest  digni- 
taries in  Antioch  carried  the  bronze  statue  of  Jovian 
into  the  Imperial  box,  so  that  the  people  could  enjoy  a 
sight  of  the  new  sovereign.  In  his  right  hand  Augus- 
tus was  holding  a  globe  surmounted  by  a  cross.  The 
sun  lighted  up  the  placid  bronze  countenance  of  the 
Emperor.  The  ofl&cials  kissed  the  feet  of  the  statue, 
and  the  populace  yelled  with  joy — 

"  Hail  to  the  saviour  of  the  country,  Augustus 
Jovian  !  " 

Multitudes  of  hands  waved  coloured  girdles  and 
linen  kerchiefs.  The  crowd  acclaimed  in  Jovian  its 
symbol,  its  soul,  its  image  regnant  over  the  world.  In 
its  scorn  of  the  dead  Emperor  the  mob  next  addressed 
itself  to  Julian,  as  if  he  were  there,  still  alive  in  the 
amphitheatre,  and  could  hear  them — 

"  Well,  philosopher,  the  wisdom  of  Plato  and  Crisipus 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  407 

was  n'  t  much  good  to  you !  Jupiter  and  Phoebus  did  n't 
protect  you  !  Now  you  are  in  the  claws  of  the  devils  ! 
Ah,  you  godless  idolater,  Christ  has  conquered  !  We, 
the  humble  of  the  world,  have  conquered  !  " 

All  were  convinced  that  Julian  had  been  slain  by  a 
Christian,  and  returned  thanks  to  God  for  the  blow. 
But  the  furious  enthusiasm  of  the  crowd  reached  its 
highest  pitch  when  they  saw  the  gladiator  prostrate  in 
the  claws  of  Mica  Aurea.  Their  eyes  started  out  of 
their  heads  to  glut  themselves  with  the  sight  of  blood  ; 
and  to  the  roaring  of  the  wild  beast  the  people  re- 
sponded by  a  roar  wilder  still — 

'  *  Glory  to  the  most  pious  Emperor  Jovian  !  Christ 
has  conquered  ! ' ' 

Anatolius  felt  overcome  with  disgust  at  the  swelter- 
ing breath  and  odour  of  the  human  horde.  Closing  his 
eyes,  attempting  not  to  draw  breath,  he  ran  out  into 
the  street,  returned  to  his  lodging,  closed  door  and 
shutters,  and  flung  himself  on  his  bed  until  nightfall. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  escape  the  populace. 

Hardly  had  twilight  descended,  when  the  whole  of 
Antioch  was  illumined  by  thousands  of  lights.  At  the 
angles  of  basilicas  and  Imperial  edifices  huge  torches 
were  aflare,  and  cressets  flaming  in  every  street. 
Through  the  cracks  in  the  shutters  of  the  sleeping- 
room  of  Anatolius  came  in  the  glow  of  bonfires  and  the 
stink  of  pitch  and  tallow.  Songs  of  drunken  legionaries 
were  bellowed  from  neighbouring  taverns,  amidst  the 
shrill  laughter  of  prostitutes.  Dominating  all,  rose  the 
praises  of  Jovian,  and  curses  on  Julian  the  renegade. 

Anatolius,  with  a  bitter  smile,  raised  his  arms  sky- 
ward, crying — 

**  In  truth,  thou  hast  conquered,  Galilean  !  '* 


XXI 

IT  was  on  board  a  great  merchant  galley  with  three 
banks  of  oars,  laden  with  soft  Asian  carpets  and 
amphorae  of  olive-oil,  on  the  voyage  between  Seleucia, 
the  port  of  Antioch,  and  Italy. 

Sailing  and  rowing  amongst  the  islands  of  the  Archi- 
pelago, the  vessel  was  now  making  for  Crete,  where 
she  was  to  take  on  board  a  cargo  of  wool,  and  disem- 
bark some  ecclesiastics,  bound  for  a  Cretan  monastery. 
Old  men,  seated  on  the  fore-deck,  were  passing  the  days 
in  pious  gossip,  prayer,  or  in  their  monkish  avocation 
of  weaving  baskets  from  slips  of  palm-leaf.  In  the 
stern,  under  a  light  violet  awning,  other  passengers 
were  installed,  with  whom  the  monks,  considering 
them  Pagans,  were  anxious  to  have  nothing  to  do. 
These  were  Anatolius,  Ammianus  Marcellinus,  and 
Arsinoe. 

The  evening  was  calm.  The  rowers  —  slaves  from 
Alexandria — heaved  and  lowered  their  long  oars  to  the 
beat  of  an  ancient  chant.  The  sun  was  sinking  amid 
ruddy  clouds.  Anatolius  was  gazing  at  the  waves, 
thinking  over  the  poet's  phrase,  the  many -laughter ed 
sea. 

After  the  hustling,  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  streets 
of  Antioch,  after  the  smoke  of  torches,  and  the  fiery 
breath  of  the  rabble,  he  was  lulling  his  mind  wuth  the 
thought:  '*  Thou  of  the  many  laughters,  take  me  and 
cleanse  my  soul  ! ' ' 

Isles  of  Calypso,  Amorgos,  Astypalaea,  Thera, 
4o3 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  409 

arose  like  visions,  now  lifting  themselves  from  the  sea, 
now  melting  away,  as  if,  all  round  the  vessel,  the 
Oceanides  were  still  leading  their  eternal  dance.  In 
those  waters  Anatolius  felt  himself  far  back  in  the 
days  of  the  Odyssey. 

His  companions  did  not  disturb  his  meditations,  for 
each  was  absorbed  in  work.  Ammianus  Marcellinus 
was  putting  in  order  his  memoirs  of  the  Persian  cam- 
paign and  the  life  of  the  Emperor  Julian  ;  and  in  the 
evenings  he  used  to  read  the  remarkable  work  of  the 
Christian  master,  Clement  of  Alexandria,  entitled, 
Stromata  :   The  Patchwork  Quilt. 

Arsinoe  was  making  models  in  wax  for  a  large 
marble  statue.  It  was  the  figure  of  some  Olympian 
deity,  the  face  of  which  wore  an  expression  of  super- 
human sadness.  Anatolius  wished,  but  hesitated,  to 
ask  her  whether  it  represented  Dionysus  or  Christ. 

The  artist  had  long  ago  abandoned  the  robes  of  a 
nun.  Pious  folk  had  turned  from  her  with  horror, 
and  called  her  the  recreant  ;  but  her  name,  and  the 
recollection  of  generous  gifts  formerly  made  to  Chris- 
tiati  monasteries,  safeguarded  her  from  persecution. 
Of  her  great  fortune  but  a  small  portion  remained,  just 
enough  to  secure  independence  ;  and  on  the  shores  of 
the  Gulf  of  Naples,  not  far  from  Baiae,  she  still  owned 
a  small  estate,  and  the  same  villa  in  which  Myrrha  had 
passed  her  last  days.  Thither  Arsinoe,  Anatolius,  and 
Marcellinus  had  agreed  to  retire  after  the  stormy 
troubles  of  recent  years,  to  pass  their  lives  in  peace  as 
servants  of  the  Muses. 

The  former  nun  now  wore  the  same  robes  as  before 
her  consecration.  The  noble  and  simple  lines  of  the 
peplum  restored  her  resemblance  to  some  ancient 
Athenian  vestal.     But  the  stuff  was  sober  in  colour, 


4IO  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

and  her  splendid  hair  thickly  veiled.  A  wisdom  al- 
most austere  lay  in  those  deep  unsmiling  eyes.  Only 
the  white  arms  of  the  artist,  bare  to  the  shoulder, 
relieved  the  sombre  hues  of  her  robe.  She  toiled 
impatiently,  almost  feverishly,  moulding  the  soft  wax  ; 
and  her  pale  hands  impressed  Anatolius  with  a  sense 
of  extraordinary  power. 

That  evening  the  galley  was  coasting  an  islet  of 
which  none  knew  the  name.  Far  off,  it  looked  like 
an  arid  rock.  In  order  to  avoid  dangerous  reefs  the 
trireme  had  to  pass  close  in  to  shore.  Under  the  steep 
cliff  the  sea- water  lay  so  clear  that  sand  and  weed  at 
the  bottom  could  be  clearly  distinguished.  Beyond 
the  grim  rocks  could  be  seen  green  pastures,  and  sheep 
feeding  round  a  plane-tree. 

Anatolius  saw,  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  a  lad 
and  a  young  girl,  probably  children  of  poor  shepherds. 
Behind  them,  among  cypresses,  was  a  small  rough  figure 
of  Pan  playing  the  flute.  Anatolius  turned  towards 
Arsinoe  to  point  out  this  remote  and  peaceful  nook  of 
a  lost  Hellas  ;  but  the  words  died  on  his  lips.  Wholly 
rapt,  and  with  a  look  of  strange  gaiety,  the  artist 
was  intent  on  her  creation,  the  waxen  statuette,  with  its 
face  of  haunting  sadness,  and  proud  Olympian  attitude. 

Anatolius  felt  her  mood  like  a  rebuff.  He  asked 
Arsinoe  in  a  harsh  unsteady  voice,  pointing  at  the 
model — 

' '  Why  are  you  making  that  ?  What  does  the  thing 
stand  for?" 

Slowly  and  with  effort,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  ; 
and  he  mused — 

*'  The  sibyls  must  have  eyes  like  those  !  "  and  then 
aloud  :  **  Arsinoe,  do  you  think  that  this  work  of 
yours  will  be  understood  ?  " 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  411 

**  What  matters  it,  friend?"  she  answered,  smiling 
gravely.  Then  she  added  in  a  lower  tone,  as  if  com- 
muning with  herself  :  ' '  He  will  stretch  out  His  hands 
toward  the  world.  He  must  be  inexorable  and  terrible 
as  Mithra-Dionysus  in  all  his  strength  and  beauty;  yet 
merciful  and  humble  ..." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  is  not  that  an  impossible  con- 
tradiction ?  " 

*  *  Who  knows  ?  For  us,  yes ;  but  for  the  future  ..." 

The  sun  was  descending  lower.  Above  him,  on  the 
horizon  westward,  a  storm-cloud  was  impending,  and 
the  last  rays  illumined  the  island  with  a  soft,  almost 
melancholy,  glow. 

The  shepherd  lad  and  his  companion  approached 
Pan's  altar  to  make  their  evening  sacrifice. 

"Is  it  your  belief,  Arsinoe,"  continued  Anatolius, 
**  is  it  your  faith  that  unknown  brothers  of  ours  shall 
pick  up  the  threads  of  our  existence,  and,  following 
the  clue,  go  immeasurably  farther  than  we  ?  Do  you 
believe  that  all  shall  not  perish  in  the  barbaric  gloom 
which  is  sinking  on  Rome  and  Hellas  ?  Ah,  if  that 
were  so  ?    If  one  could  trust  the  future  ..." 

**  Yes  !  "  exclaimed  Arsinoe,  a  prophetic  gleam  in 
her  sombre  eyes,  "  the  future  is  in  us,  in  our  madness 
and  our  anguish  !  Julian  was  right.  Content  without 
glory,  in  silence,  strangers  to  all,  and  solitary  among 
men,  we  must  work  out  our  work  to  the  end.  We 
must  hide  and  cherish  the  last,  the  utmost  spark 
amongst  the  ashes  of  the  altar,  that  tribes  and  nations 
of  the  future  may  kindle  from  it  new  torches !  Where 
we  finish  they  shall  begin.  Let  Hellas  die!  Men 
shall  dig  up  her  relics — unearth  her  divine  fragments 
of  marble,  yea,  over  them  shall  weep  and  pray  !  From 
our  tombs  shall  the  yellowed  leaves  of  the  books  we 


412  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

love  be  unsealed,  and  the  ancient  stories  of  Homer,  the 
wisdom  of  Plato,  shall  be  spelt  out  slowly  anew,  as  by 
little  children.  And  with  Hellas,  you  and  I  shall  live 
again  !  " 

''  And  with  us,  revives  the  curse  on  us  !  "  exclaimed 
Anatolius,  "  The  struggle  between  Olympus  and 
Golgotha  will  begin  over  again  ! — Why  ?  And  when 
shall  that  struggle  end  ?  Answer,  sibyl,  if  thou 
canst  !  " 

Arsinoe  was  silent,  and  her  eyes  fell.  Then  she 
glanced  at  Ammianus  and  pointed  to  him — 

* '  There  is  one  who  will  answer  you  better  than  I. 
Like  ours,  his  heart  is  shared  between  Christ  and 
Olympus,  and  yet  he  keeps  the  lucidity  of  his  soul." 

Ammianus  Marcellinus,  putting  aside  the  manu- 
script by  Clement,  had  been  quietly  listening  to  the 
discussion. 

'*  In  truth,"  said  the  Epicurean,  addressing  him, 
"  we  have  now  been  friends  for  more  than  four  months, 
and  yet  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  a  Christian  or 
a  Hellenist?" 

**  Nor  I  myself,"  answered  the  young  Ammianus 
frankly,  with  a  blush. 

*  *  What  ?  No  torture  of  doubts  ?  No  suffering  from 
the  antagonism  between  the  Greek  and  the  Christian 
doctrine  ?  ' ' 

* '  No,  my  friend  ;  I  think  that  the  two  teachings  in 
many  points  agree  ..." 

**  But  how — from  what  point  of  view — do  you  intend 
to  write  your  account  of  the  Roman  Empire  ?  One  of 
the  two  scales  of  the  balance  must  sink  and  the  other 
rise  ?  ' ' 

' '  Not  consciously,  I  hope, ' '  answered  the  historian  ; 
**  My  aim  is  to  be  just  to  both.    Julian  the  Emperor  I 


The  Death  of  the  Gods  413 

love,  but  even  for  him  I  shall  be  impartial.  No  one 
shall  know  which  side  I  join,  any  better  than  I  know 
myself  ..." 

Anatolius  had  already  proved  the  bravery,  the 
chivalrous  friendship  of  Ammianus,  and  now  he  was 
daily  discovering  in  him  other  qualities  no  less  rare. 

* '  You  are  born  to  be  a  historian,  Ammianus,  to  be 
the  judge  of  our  passionate  age,  and  to  bring  its  war- 
ring philosophies,  in  some  sort,  to  a  reconciliation  !  " 

* '  I  shall  not  be  the  first  to  do  that, ' '  answered  Am- 
mianus. He  rose  to  his  feet  and  pointing  with  en- 
thusiasm to  the  parchment-rolls  of  the  great  Christian 
master — 

'  *  All  you  suggest  is  already  written  here  ;  and  with 
far  ampler  powers  than  mine.  This  is  the  Patch- 
work of  Clement  of  Alexandria,  in  which  he  proves 
that  the  greatness  of  Rome  and  the  philosophy  of 
Hellas  paved  the  way  for  the  teaching  of  Christ,  and, 
by  maxims  and  numberless  forecasts,  made  the  first 
decided  steps  toward  the  earthly  kingdom  of  God. 
Plato  is  the  forerunner  of  Jesus  the  Nazarene." 

The  last  words,  spoken  with  perfect  simplicity,  pro- 
foundly impressed  Anatolius.  He  seemed  to  remember 
the  whole  scene  as  from  some  previous  existence  :  the 
island  flushed  by  that  setting  sun  ;  the  smell  of  tar  on 
board  the  galley  ;  and  the  words  of  Ammianus.  The 
vista  of  a  new  world  was  momentarily  opened  to  his 
mind. 

Meanwhile  the  trireme  was  heading  round  the  cape; 
the  little  wood  of  cypress  had  almost  disappeared  be- 
hind the  cliffs.  Anatolius  threw  a  last  look  at  the 
lad  and  girl  before  the  altar  of  Pan.  The  girl  was 
pouring  out  the  evening  offering  of  goat's  milk  and 
honey  ;  the  boy  beginning  to  play  on  his  reed-pipe. 


414  The  Death  of  the  Gods 

The  thin  blue  smoke  of  sacrifice  could  be  seen  rising 
above  the  wood  after  the  human  figures  had  vanished 
and  while  the  trireme  made  for  open  sea. 

From  the  fore-part  of  the  ship  there  came  upon  the 
silence  a  solemn  music  ;  the  old  monks  were  chanting 
in  unison  their  evening  prayer  .   .  . 

But  over  the  still  water  came  faint  and  clear  notes  of 
another  melody.  It  was  the  little  shepherd,  piping  his 
nocturnal  hymn  to  Pan,  the  old  god  of  gaiety,  of  free^ 
dom  and  love. 

Anatolius  felt  a  thrill  of  wonder  and  surmise. 

"'  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven,'^  the 
monks  chanted. 

The  silvery  notes  of  the  shepherd's  flute,  floating 
high  in  the  sky,  mingled  with  the  words  of  the 
Christians. 

The  last  beams  faded  from  that  happy  islet,  leaving 
it  dull  and  hueless  in  the  midst  of  the  sea.  Both 
hymns  ceased. 

The  wind  blew  sharply  in  the  rigging  and  whipped 
up  grey  and  white  waves.  The  straining  galley- 
timbers  creaked  and  groaned.  Shadows  approached 
from  the  southward  and  the  sea  grew  swiftly  dark. 
Huge  clouds  massed  overhead,  and  from  beyond  the 
horizon  came  the  first  long  intermittent  roll  of  thunder. 

Night  and  Tempest,  hand  in  hand,  were  striding  on 
apace. 

THS  END 


Y  USE 

jWHICHBORRO 


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